The Best Thing Since Sliced Milk
by TheRimmerConnection
Summary: Before he ever met Ford Prefect, Arthur Dent had a pretty appalling day. We are not convinced that the situation will improve... Pretty fluffy original meeting, heading eventually for some charming FordArthur slashiness
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Okay, I think the title might need a bit of explaining. This fiendish plotbunny attacked me and forced me to write, then stubbornly refused to provide a title. So I passed the buck over to the lovely and imaginative murderofonerose, who also failed to come up with anything solid (though she did kindly put on her beta'ing hat for me for a minute - thank-you XD), but suggested there should be milk in the title. So I fell back on the old standby and Googled milk aphorisms. I liked this one...._

_Disclaimer: Although I have just sat here and talked to myself for fifteen minutes solid about how much I love writing Arthur, I still do not own him (or anything else you recognise), did not create him, and would beat about the head with a stout cudgel anyone who did not acknowledge the greatness of DNA :)_

* * *

Arthur Dent stood by the window, looking out at the rain. It was a rather half-hearted sort of rain, the sort that you could only see if you caught it against some dark trees or checked the surfaces of puddles. He wrinkled up his nose and took a mouthful of flattish beer. He felt a hand on his arm.

'Hello Arthur,' said the owner of the hand, the voice swaying back and forth past Arthur's ears as its owner tried to maintain their balance while in a fairly advanced state of inebriation. He turned around.

'Oh. Hello. Laura,' he said, rather unenthusiastically. Laura was attractive, but not such a pretty sight now, after a hard session on the wedding champagne and a vigourous attempt at a bit of Scottish dancing with her Uncle John and a woman she'd never met before. She was also perfectly capable of talking the rear quarters off an entire herd of donkeys. Really, Arthur had no desire to spend the next three hours stuck at a table observing her attempts to focus on him properly.

'Excuse me, Laura, I'm afraid I have rather an important appointment to keep, just...I'll see you later, okay?'

He moved quickly away through the throng of people hovering around the disaster area that represented the remains of the buffet, a guilty grimace on his face. He hated lying to her, but today had been bad enough, without that.

It had started with the milk. No milk had been delivered this morning, for some reason. Arthur had called the delivery company and yes, his milkman had done his rounds and delivered all his milk. No, looking at the sheet, Mr Dent was not down for a delivery today. Arthur had demanded to know why. He had asked for milk. He always had milk on a Thursday. He had had milk delivered to this house on a Thursday every week since he had moved there years ago. Perhaps the company needed to take more care of its long term customers? They had apologised profusely and promised milk the next day and on all subsequent Thursdays. However, this did not solve his immediate problem and he had been faced with dry cornflakes and orange juice for breakfast. No tea. Not even enough milk for that. As a result, he had started the day in an appallingly bad mood.

He apologised and excused himself to the door, glad of his slight height advantage over most of the rest of the guests, which at least allowed him to see his goal, even if it didn't make it any easier to get there. The corridor of the inn was also fairly crowded. The reception was taking up only the back bar and function room. The main bar was open to the public, and extremely popular.

The day had not improved. Knowing that he had to be at the church by twelve, he had decided not to go out in the morning, but get a little, much needed, housekeeping done. A little carelessness in the bathroom had caused him to slip, bleach bottle in hand and, while he had avoided dousing himself, spots of it had dripped unnoticed onto his waistcoat, laid out on the ottoman ready to change into later. As a result, he was now unable to remove his jacket, and had had to endure the tropical heat of the wedding speeches and subsequent unavoidable dance-floor shenanigans, fully jacketed and sweating buckets.

Between Arthur and the Gents' lavatories, was a free-standing rail acting as a coat rack for all non-staying guests. It was also acting as the focal point for a number of people who had clearly decided that the inn's ample bar and lounge facilities were inadequate for their purposes. Arthur supposed that they were the sort of people who could manage to spend more than fifty percent of their average working day chatting around the coffee machine, and could not break the habit in their leisure time. Whatever the reason, they were in his way, and their failure to immediately notice him and move to let him pass incensed him in his already overwrought state. He knew it was silly. He knew it would be entirely inappropriate to vent his anger on these innocent souls who, in all fairness, had a perfect right to stand near their coats. He took a deep breath and managed to keep his voice calm enough, though he suspected he might have ended up sounding slightly hysterical.

'Excuse me,' he said, loudly enough to make the nearest person jump and step quickly aside. The rest of the group parted, but only enough for him to squeeze his way through, barely missing trampling on court shoed toes and catching his jacket on diamanté brooches.

'So sorry, sorry, 'scuse me, sorry, oh I am sorry, beg pardon, whoops! Sorry, ouch – sorry, not to worry...'

He emerged on the other side of the huddle, furious with them for not getting out of his way properly and yet, having apologised to every single one of them on the way through, totally unable to display his anger. He smiled weakly at the last person as he stumbled through the lavatory door and shuffled gratefully up to the furthest urinal.

After the bleach incident, he had decided to go out, take the dog for a walk and generally calm himself down. This had worked fairly well. The dog had found a particularly unpleasant patch of mud to roll in, but then it had also found a very wet river, so it had pretty much negated any damage done; although this had meant that Arthur had returned home looking like he had been caught in a brief, one-sided rainstorm. Upon his return, he had let the dog into the back garden and gone upstairs to wash and change. The dog had come back inside without incident and Arthur had left the house for the wedding in relatively high spirits.

The car refused to start first time. It also refused to start second, third, fourth and fifth times. And sixth, seventh, eighth and ninth times. It was just as well for its own safety and longevity (although it did not know this at the time), that it chose to start on the tenth attempt, as by this time Arthur was bolt upright in his seat, mouth drawn back in a primitive grimace, hair ruffled by his attempts to claw at his own brain. He let it rumble quietly for a minute or so, eyeing the dials with manic intensity until he was certain of its stability. This car would not get the better of him, particularly since, and this was the real bugger, its presence in the car park meant that, as a sensible type of man, he would not be drinking tonight. A wedding reception at which he could not drink. The car would pay for that if it tried any more funny business.

Halfway down the road, it coughed and rolled to a halt. It was at times like these that Arthur was glad he lived, to all intents and purposes, in the middle of nowhere, thus giving himself the opportunity to scream obscenities at the offending vehicle without feeling guilty about it. He waited, gave it a chance, wiggled at the choke a couple of times for encouragement and tried again. It leapt forward, throwing him against the seat, before cutting out again. He thumped the steering wheel, depressed the clutch more thoroughly, and they rolled off down the road together. By the time they reached the main road, the illusion of man and machine in perfect harmony was fully recreated, although Arthur felt rather like a lion tamer whose hold over his charge was slipping. A run in with some of the worst traffic he had seen in years, which set him back over an hour and meant he arrived at the church with minutes to spare, had not improved his mood, and it was with great difficulty that he prevented himself from walking out when the groom turned as he approached, raised his eyebrows, looked at his watch and scowled at him.

It wasn't as if he was the best man or anything. He wasn't even late, just cutting it fine. The fact was, the groom didn't like him. The bride was Arthur's cousin, a close cousin with whom he had spent a great deal of his childhood. They were good friends, he was here as one of her most important guests, front row seat, next to her grandparents, and he had every right to be there. However, the groom saw him as something of a rival, he knew. Not in romantic terms, no no, nothing like that, but as friends and confidants, they had had what might have been construed as secretive, even sly meetings without the groom's knowledge. There was nothing whatsoever in it of course, but husband-to-be was taking her away to Scotland, condescending to have the wedding in the South of England only because her parents had raised such a fuss about not only losing their daughter to a distant land, but also having to pay through the nose for the travel and accommodation to see her getting hitched. Arthur was going to miss her, she was going to miss Arthur. Naturally they spent more time together as the fateful day approached.

Still, Arthur was not going to be accused of pettiness and he was not going to miss the wedding, even though he rather suspected that an overheard comment about 'Yon haverin' numpty' had been directed at him. So he took a seat in the front pew, opened his order of service and studiously ignored the dirty looks from across the aisle.

The door of the Gents' swung open and two men came in, very obviously not together. One looked like he was at a wedding reception. The other looked like he was on his way to an art-history lecture. The wedding guest headed for a cubicle, presumably to offload some of the buffet in whatever way proved most expedient; the art-historian came and stood next to Arthur, whistling loudly as he relieved himself and bouncing on his toes to finish off. He zipped himself up, grinned at Arthur, waved at the taps in the sink and left. Arthur went to wash his hands properly. The wedding guest flushed twice. Arthur looked in the mirror. Actually, he wasn't looking too bad. In fact, for someone who had had the sort of day he'd had, he was looking good. A little overheated perhaps, but much better than he'd expected. The thought perked him up a little, particularly when he saw the state of the other wedding guest, who came out of the cubicle and stood next to him, splashing water onto his face. Arthur smiled politely and the man shook his head at him. He swayed a little and rested his forearms on the sink-surround.

'Are you alright?' asked Arthur.

''M fine,' said the man, with great effort. He waved Arthur away, and Arthur reluctantly left him to it.

Back in the function room, Arthur tried hard to get back into the swing of things. Stupifyingly sober, he stood on the edge of the dance-floor, bending his knees and swaying a little in the vain hope that his body would start dancing properly of its own accord. He tried moving his arms a little, just a little, in front of his body, but the effect was generally unpleasing and he soon let them drop to his sides again.

He was just about to find a chair somewhere dark and near the bar and far enough away from the bride's parents that he would not be drawn into conversation, when the bride herself appeared, out of the chaotic mess of people-who-should-never-be-allowed-to-dance-in-public, and grabbed his hands. She swung him onto the floor and put his hand on her waist, the other firmly gripped in her raised hand. Having established herself as a force to be reckoned with today, she allowed Arthur his dignity, and the lead. He manoeuvred her passably deftly around the music and the other dancers and felt his mood start to lighten as she smiled at him and leant in to kiss his cheek. Then he saw the groom staring nastily at him over the shoulder of some other unknown friend-or-relative and felt a sinking feeling again.

'I'm afraid I'm going to have to go quite soon,' he said, as gently as he could, 'I have...work tomorrow. You know. Sorry.'

She rested her head on his shoulder,

'Never mind,' she said at last when she raised it again, 'I'm glad you could come. It was good to have you here. I'll send you the photos. You'll have to come and visit us sometime. I'll write.'

'Yes. Perhaps. I'll write too. You look after yourself, and Steve. Have a good honeymoon, won't you?'

She nodded, a slight wateriness about her eyes, and kissed his cheek again. He left her on the dance-floor, holding onto her hand until it slipped out of his loose fingers. He waved back at her and headed into the corridor once more.

Outside, he stopped by his car to find his keys. He could hear them, just couldn't quite locate them. As he searched, someone came up to him and tapped him on the shoulder. It was the art-historian, who, he could now see, was contentedly tipsy and carrying his bag as if he were on his way home.

'Excuse me, are you leaving?' asked the man.

'Er, yes,' replied Arthur, looking around to see whether, perhaps, he was blocking the man's car into its space,

'Where are you headed?' the man went on, quite casually. Arthur was a little taken aback and was about to tell him to mind his own business, when suddenly he appreciated that a lift was being sought here, and maybe it would be a kind thing to do to round of the evening and make him feel a little better, about himself, if nothing else, when he got to bed tonight.

'Cottington,' he said.

'Good. Mind if I hop in?' asked the man.

'Not at all. Where can I drop you?' asked Arthur, feeling more virtuous already.

'Oh, anywhere near there would do.' said the man. He looked at the car, and then at Arthur, who had just managed to extricate the keys from the corner of his pocket. 'Ford Prefect,' he said.

'No-o, Renault,' said Arthur, looking confused.

'No, I'm Ford Prefect,' said the man, also looking a little confused. Arthur started to smirk, then realised that this would be quite rude and stopped.

'Oh,' he said, 'Arthur Dent. Er, hop in.' He opened the door, went around to the driver's side, unlocked it and got in.

He turned the key in the ignition. Nothing happened except for a few wheezy spins of the engine. He tried again. Nothing.

After twenty attempts, he looked across at the man, who was sitting staring at him, his bag in his lap. Arthur rubbed at the back of his neck, where the hairs had all stood on end for some reason.

'Well, it looks like I'm not going anywhere. I'm sorry, I think you'll have to find someone else to take you home.'

'Okay,' said the man, not looking at all bothered by this. 'Come back inside, shall we get a drink?'

'I'm not...' said Arthur, before it occurred to him that he could now drink and, what was more, probably needed something strong to see him through. 'Right. Yes. On me.'

'Great!' said the man, and together they headed into the slowly emptying main bar.

* * *

_Will this be the start of something beautiful, or will it be terribly teasing and require many more, rambling long chapters to get anywhere near the sort of friendship the author requires of them? Major plotbunny attack means that, for once, I actually know the answer, but reviews would be lovely all the same ;D_


	2. Chapter 2

There were three people left sitting at the bar, plus six at a table near the door and two having an intimate moment at a shadowy table in a dark corner.

Arthur pulled out his wallet and looked at Ford Prefect,

'What are you having?' he asked.

'A pint of anything. I've had one of each so far, I think, but they were all drinkable.'

Arthur ordered two the same and they stood at the bar, steaming slightly as the rain evaporated off their jackets in the warm room. Before they had finished their pints however, the barman called last orders. Ford looked at Arthur in horror,

'Last orders? What the hell are we going to do?' Arthur looked equally horrified. He had only just realised an opportunity to get himself positively steaming, a situation which, after the day's events, would be very welcome. His mind as yet untroubled by alcohol, he thought for a moment. There were two options. Either he could help Ford to gatecrash the reception and gain them free access to the remaining champagne and the back bar, or he could pay for a room each and turn them into hotel guests, so that they could carry on drinking.

Going back to the wedding reception would mean saying goodbye to the bride again, admitting he had been lying about work, and facing the ugly looks of the groom. It would also mean running the risk of ending up sitting with one or another set of aunts and uncles, a situation in which he did not want to be placed.

'Stay there,' he said authoritatively to Ford. Ford stayed there. Arthur made his way to the little reception counter and rang the bell.

'Excuse me,' he said when a very tired looking girl appeared through the door, 'I wonder if you can help me. I'm here with the wedding reception, and my car won't start, so I can't get home. I have a friend who I was meant to be giving a lift to. Do you have two rooms for tonight?'

The girl looked in her book, yawning,

'I've got the wedding party booked into most of the rooms and two other paying guests.' Arthur's face fell. 'I've got one double left. You can have that if you want. Ten pounds each, bed and breakfast.'

Arthur fished in his wallet for the money and filled in the register. She handed him a key,

'Breakfast is seven-thirty till nine-thirty. Checkout by eleven-thirty.'

'Right,' said Arthur and returned to the bar.

The barman had just called time on the public, and the people at the bar and the table of six were already gathering their coats to leave. Arthur showed the barman the key and he shrugged and gave them the same again.

''ll geddit,' said Ford sloppily, the top-up of alcohol having seemingly fast-tracked his levels of inebriation. He handed over the money, then turned to Arthur, leaning heavily on the bar,

'Arthur...Dent.' he said, staring intently at Arthur's eyes. Arthur held them for a moment, then, when it became clear that the man was trying to stare him out, he looked away. He gazed at his beer, considering what to say next.

'So, what do you do for a living?' he asked eventually.

'Actor. No work just now though,' said Ford morosely.

_Ah, _thought Arthur,_ not an art-historian._

'Wha' 'bout you?' asked Ford.

'I work in local radio,' replied Arthur, '...It's really more interesting than you might think.' He paused, '...although probably not quite as exciting as what you do. When you're actually doing it, that is.'

Ford's eyes seemed to sharpen and he regarded Arthur with a discerning sort of look,

'No, I don't expect it is,' he said clearly.

A couple of hours later, they had found out very little more about each other, apart from their taste in alcohol, and the barman was beginning to look very shifty about serving them at all. At last he put his hands on the counter, elbows out, and leant forward to speak very clearly into Arthur's ear, which, he suspected, was the one most likely to pass on any information he imparted to it.

'Come along now gents,' he said, in a voice he reserved especially for speaking kindly to drunk patrons, 'Don't you think you might have had enough for tonight?'

Arthur looked at his watch, decided that the numbers on it could mean anything, and nodded, not because he agreed with the barman, but because the implied order to leave was the first sensible suggestion his brain had received from any quarter for the last hour or so, and it intended to follow it. Arthur slipped off his stool and prodded Ford's arm.

'Comin'?' he asked.

'Wherezat?' asked Ford.

'Um...' said Arthur, 'Not sure. Got chairs, s'pose.'

The barman looked at them affectionately, they weren't shouting or being rude to him, or damaging the furniture. He liked this sort of drunk: just silly and lost.

'You booked a room, Sir,' he said, nodding encouragement to Arthur. Arthur slowly nodded back, a blank look on his face, then it cleared and he smiled and nodded more purposefully,

'Yes, s'right, here, look.' He fished in his pocket and drew out the key. He waved it at the barman, then at Ford who blinked at it once. The barman peered at it,

'Room twelve, Sir. You go out of that door over there, where the light is, up the stairs, right to the top, then you turn left and look for a door with that number on it, just like the one on your key.'

Arthur nodded seriously, absorbing this important nugget of information.

'Twelve...' he said, as if it were a mysterious number holding the answers to every question he had ever asked. The barman smiled again,

'Yes, twelve.' He watched Arthur pull Ford off the chair, help him up off the floor, wobble into the bar with him, and then set off to the door. By the time they got half-way, they had achieved a sort of counterbalanced effect by leaning on each other, so that even when one stumbled, the other could hold him up...most of the time.

Through a doorway at the end of the corridor, taped music was playing softly. The bride and groom were long gone. Laura and Uncle John traced a lazy, slurring waltz around the otherwise empty dance-floor.

Arthur and Ford half dragged each other up the stairs. At the top, there was a short debate about the directions the barman had given. It was resolved in favour of 'right' and they spent a happy ten minutes tapping at the numbers on doors, performing the complicated logical reasoning test that would determine whether or not the numerals on the door-plates matched the squiggles on the key.

Having woken most of the people on that side of the building, including some who recognised Arthur and warned him about what they would be doing to him the next time they ran into him, they agreed that the barman had been lying to them. Returning to the staircase, they turned left and managed, on the third attempt, to match the numbers.

Arthur was very proud of the fact that he unlocked the door in under three minutes. It was a complicated procedure, demanding that the key not only be aimed at the hole, but also that it should be the right way up, directly in line with the hole, and should then be turned a half turn to the right, while, and this was the really tricky bit, simultaneously depressing the door-handle.

They stumbled into the room and Ford staggered, unaided, to the bed. He lay down on it, his legs hanging off the bottom from his knees down, and promptly fell soundly asleep.

Arthur looked around. Part of him said, 'You can't share a bed with a complete stranger.' Most of him said, 'Which one is the right bed?' He selected the one in the middle and headed straight for it. A treacherous bit of rug caught him unawares and he landed across Ford Prefect, his head over the far side of the bed, face down. He fell asleep instantly.

* * *

_Okay, rambling it is. What will happen when they wake up? Will Arthur be able to laugh it off and leave with dignity, or will his mortification span the years (or at least one chapter)? For once I have a backlog, so I'll be posting anyway, but reviews would still be very lovely :)_


	3. Chapter 3

Arthur opened his eyes and panicked.

He could not see a thing. Worse than that, he could barely breathe. His whole chest seemed to be compressed and his nose and mouth were blocked.

_Keep calm, Arthur, _he thought to himself, _It's probably just... _ His brain failed to supply anything that it might be, so he decided to panic some more.

Some time and a lot of heavy breathing later, something clicked in his head and he attempted to raise it.

'Ow!' he said, as it throbbed painfully. Then he sighed. Raising his head by this small amount had pulled his face clear of the thick, fluffy duvet, allowing him to breathe more freely. It had also, however, increased the compression on his ribs. This was largely because he was lying, not on a nice flat bit of bed, but across Ford Prefect's legs, his weight magnified by the smaller surface area of contact, and the knobbliness of Ford's knees.

He struggled back onto the bed, his head thumping as it moved. The room danced around him as he tried to sit up.

'Eurgh,' he said, swallowing hard and hoping that the rising nausea would leave him alone in a minute. Beside him, Ford was stirring, the loss of pressure on his legs, or the general awakeness of Arthur had roused him.

'Ow!' he said, as his nerve endings sluggishly started reporting on his status.

'Ow!' he said again as he tried to move his legs for the first time and found that he couldn't. He looked around with half-closed eyes, and did not seem in the least surprised to see Arthur sitting next to him.

'Legs've gone,' he said matter-of-factly.

'Oh,' said Arthur, failing to make the connection between this statement and the fact that he had just been lying on them. 'E'scuse me.' He half rolled off the bed, clutching his head, and went to the little en suite bathroom. Ford heard some unpromising sounds and rubbed at his own face, his eyes still not quite daring to open, then managed to sit himself up. His feet hit the floor at the foot of the bed as he did so, but for all he knew about it, they might as well have been Arthur's feet.

He tried to stand up. He'd done this before, he was sure of it. You just sort of... propped yourself up on top of your legs and kept your balance up there while the legs did all the work. Unfortunately, Ford's legs were absent, presumed missing, and when he tried to balance his torso on top of them, they simply gave way and deposited him on the floor.

Arthur emerged from the bathroom looking pale and uncomfortable, and found Ford lying on his side on the floor. Ford looked up at him and smiled a brave sort of smile,

'You look like you need some food.'

Arthur blinked hard at him, turned on his heel and returned to the bathroom.

By the time he came out again, several long minutes later, Ford had propped himself up against the wall and was grimacing as the feeling came back to his legs and his nerves decided that on the whole, 'hundreds of hot knives' was the effect they should be relaying to his brain.

'Wha' time's it?' he asked through gritted teeth. Arthur looked at his watch. He had to move it backwards and forwards a few times to get it in focus, but at least the numbers seemed to actually mean something this morning.

'Eleven.' He paused and thought hard, then continued, 'We've missed breakfast. Have to check out in half an hour.' He sat down next to Ford. 'Your legs back yet?'

'Yes. They are,' said Ford dangerously. It should have been obvious. He'd put on enough of a performance about it. Arthur nodded,

'Shall we go then? I'll have to call a garage...for my car.'

Forty minutes later, they stood shivering in the cold air outside the cold-feeling inn. There was nothing like seeing the scene of the night before on the morning after to remind yourself just how much of a fabrication such nights were. Arthur felt distinctly like death warmed over, and although Ford seemed chirpier than him, he was still huddled into his thin jacket looking like he wanted to be anywhere but here.

Ford had said he would stick around until Arthur found out about his car. If it got fixed, he'd take a lift, if not, well, they could share the cost of a taxi. Arthur had agreed, finding that, despite his alcohol induced malaise, after the unpleasant wedding day he rather wanted the company.

The mechanic slammed the bonnet of the car back into place, making both Ford and Arthur wince.

'No can do, Mate,' he announced cheerfully, lighting a cigarette held between oily fingers. 'It'll have to be a tow. Where you headed?'

'Cottington,' said Arthur mournfully. The mechanic sucked air between his teeth and shook his head.

'None of our lads go out that far. Have to make your own way. Here--' he broke off, fished in his pocket and scribbled something on the crumpled page of a dog-eared duplicate book, 'That's your ticket and our number's up the top. Give us a shout tomorrow and one of the lads'll tell you how long it'll be, okay?'

Arthur nodded helplessly and watched the mechanic hitch his car up onto the back of the truck. As he finished, he removed the cigarette from his mouth, trampled the butt into the ground and grinned at Ford and Arthur,

'Good night last night was it?' He gave them a gleeful thumbs up, jumped into his cab and swung out of sight, Arthur's car bouncing along behind like the tin cans on the newly-weds' Bentley.

'Taxi?' asked Ford, rubbing his hands together for warmth.

Arthur exhaled a cloud of dragon's breath air and watched it blend into the grainy white sky. His head thumped hard in protest at the cold. He nodded, then wished he hadn't.

'It's probably better if I don't drive, anyway,' he said. Ford looked at him oddly,

'Feeling rough?' he asked, with genuine surprise, 'I'm starting to feel pretty good now, actually.' It was clear that he hadn't really registered Arthur's little bathroom trip, or the fact that none of his blood was making it anywhere near the surface of his skin, or the fact that his eyes wouldn't open fully with the pain of his headache. Arthur scowled at him,

'Well, really? Good for you. I, on the other hand, feel like crawling back into my coffin, so if you're feeling so flippant and...and, healthy, you can bloody well make your own way home!' Arthur turned and headed back towards the inn door. Ford saw his cheap lift disappearing and ran after him,

'Hey! Okay, okay, I didn't realise. I thought you wanted to share a taxi?' Arthur shrugged, then relented and nodded slightly.

'Okay. Just, keep your voice down, alright?'

In the reception, Arthur made his way to the public telephone, putting his head into the soundproof hood and feeling a deep sense of relief as it cut out all noise from the inn. The back-board was plastered with the usual selection of taxi firms and double-glazing specialists, as if the primary concern of most people, having spent time in a draughty old inn, would be to make sure that their own house was fully insulated upon their return. He dialled the easiest number he could see and was informed that forty minutes was the minimum wait at this time in the morning. He agreed anyway and ducked out of the hood to see Ford arguing with the man on reception.

'...He says breakfast is over and lunch isn't served on Saturdays,' he said irritably as Arthur approached. The receptionist looked bored and slightly aggrieved at having been torn away from his newspaper for _this_.

'Well...' said Arthur, intending to say that this was perfectly reasonable, given that he had been told the breakfast times and this was not a large hotel and so on...

'I've _paid_ for breakfast,' Ford continued, sounding very hurt. Arthur considered pointing out that, actually, _he_ had paid, but decided it wasn't worth the effort.

'I am entitled to food,' Ford went on, slamming his fist on the desk, making the receptionist, who had just drifted off into a pleasant daydream, jump violently and send a pile of papers slipping to the floor. He seemed to lose the will to fight.

'Look Sir,' he said, with forced politeness, 'I can go to the kitchen if it'll make you happy, and see if they have anything they can put together for you, but I can't promise anything, it's not something we usually do.'

'Good. Yes. Thankyou,' said Ford. He turned and grinned at Arthur as the man left,

'See? Ask and you get.'

'We haven't got yet,' Arthur pointed out, 'And besides, it's not their fault. If you wanted breakfast, you should have set the alarm to wake up in time.'

'I need food. You need food. Trust me, you'll feel better with solids inside you.' Arthur gulped at the word 'solids.' His stomach didn't much like the sound of that. Then he inclined his head to one side and looked intently at Ford. It seemed he _had_ noticed Arthur's condition after all.

The receptionist returned and coughed,

'The kitchen say they can do you some bacon and eggs. Will that do?'

'How long've we got?' Ford asked Arthur.

'About half an hour.' Ford spent a moment calculating, then said,

'Yeah, great. Two of those. Where?'

'Since there's only the two of you, you can sit in the bar.'

'Can we get drinks?' Ford asked, hopefully,

'Ford...' whined Arthur, looking embarrassed. The receptionist eyed them suspiciously,

'The bar's not open. I can get the kitchen to bring you coffee if you like?' Ford looked disgruntled, but nodded, and the receptionist went away again.

Arthur allowed himself to be ushered through to the bar by Ford. He was not really sure why he was letting this man push him around so much. Perhaps it was just that he exuded confidence and seemed to have a solution to everything. Perhaps it was just that he was being taken in by the appealing fresh innocence on his face. He couldn't help feeling that this was concealing, rather poorly at that, a mischievousness bordering on the sly. He couldn't think why that was the impression he got, but it was, and he wasn't about to disregard it.

_Watch it Arthur_, he thought, _You don't know who this man is. Just take it carefully._

Ford sat on one of the little banquettes in the corner of the bar, stretched his legs out inconveniently under the table, slid down on his seat, and stretched his arms up over his head. He yawned noisily and fished in the satchel he still wore on his shoulder. When Arthur thought about it, this bag had not been off his shoulder once in...well, in the whole, short time he had known him. Even when he was absolutely plastered, the bag had stayed put and, thanks to his rather precipitous changeover from awake to asleep, there it had remained all night.

Ford drew out a script of some description from the top of the bag and put it on the table. It was extremely dog-eared and looked as if it had been in the bag non-stop for about three years. He opened it up on the table and glanced at Arthur.

For some reason, he looked incredibly shifty, as if the script were dishonest in some way.

'Have you got an audition?' Arthur asked politely, trying to get a look at what the script was for.

'Uh, yeah, next week,' replied Ford. He looked down the scene-list a couple of times.

'What part are you going for?' Arthur tried again, when the silence became unbearable.

'Um...' This seemed to throw Ford for a minute, then he said quickly, 'The caretaker.'

'Oh,' said Arthur, trying to sound interested. Ford drummed his fingers on the script for a moment, then closed it and put it away. Arthur squinted at it as it went back in the bag.

'A caretaker in _The Wizard of Oz_?' he asked. Ford frowned and lifted the flap of his satchel to look at the cover. A moment's pause,

'...It's kind of a new version. I don't know. I'll probably just get chorus. If I get anything.'

'Do you sing and dance then?' asked Arthur, glad of something to take his mind off what his stomach and his head were doing.

'Um...' It was as if no-one had ever asked this sort of taxing question before and Ford was uncertain how to answer.

'I try not to,' he said at last, a look of desperation in his eyes. Luckily for him, at that moment the eggs and bacon arrived, which effectively scuppered Arthur's attempts at conversation. The concentration required merely to remain seated in front of the food without retching all over it was all-consuming. He forced himself to pick up a fork off the slightly sticky table. Ford was right, he knew. If he ate this, life would start to look rosier again.

By the time he took his first, reluctant mouthful, Ford had almost finished and was looking at him across his last forkful of runny yolk and crisped-up white. There was something...not quite right about that stare. It made Arthur's already jittery body shiver slightly, but it wasn't altogether unpleasant. It was as if he were being surveyed by something incredibly important, something he just hadn't figured out yet. There was the electric twang of destiny in the air, but he hadn't the faintest idea why. He decided it was probably the hangover. His eyes started to water. For pity's sake, did this man _never _blink? He looked down to shovel more egg and bacon onto his fork. He was starting to feel better. Not good, but definitely better. He looked at his watch, then back at Ford, who was still staring.

'Er...' said Arthur when he had finished his mouthful, 'Would you mind not staring quite so much? It's...well, it's a little rude, don't you think? Or do I have yolk on my chin or something?'

'No, no yolk,' said Ford, confused. He seemed not to understand that what he was doing was rude, yet he did not appear hurt by the suggestion that it was. Arthur's words just seemed to wash over him. He continued to stare. Arthur had run out of ways to combat it. He had asked politely and he had pointed out that it was socially unacceptable behaviour. Where could he go from there? Nowhere. There were no avenues left open to him. No forms to fill in, no managers to send for. All he could do was sit there and accept it and hope it stopped.

He finished his food under Ford's close scrutiny and laid his knife and fork down neatly at twenty-past four on his plate. He picked up his coffee mug. The coffee tasted foul with his hung-over taste buds, but he drank it anyway.

Someone from the kitchen came to take their plates away and presented them with what looked like an angrily inflated bill. Ford picked it up and screwed up his nose at it. He dug in his bag again and pulled out a battered-looking wallet. There was an obscene amount of money inside. Arthur gawped at it. Ford ignored him while he paid, but then glanced up and noticed the look on Arthur's face.

'Jus' got paid,' he explained, but Arthur would have said, if pushed, that perhaps he still looked a little shifty.

Five minutes later they were outside again, shivering and puffing as they waited for the taxi.

'It's never warm when I'm waiting for a taxi,' said Arthur, without preamble.

'What?' Ford asked, thinking he'd missed something.

'It's always freezing. It doesn't matter what time of year it is. It's as if the entire climate of the British Isles is determined to see that I never wait for transport in the balmy warmth of a nice summer's day,'

'Oh,' said Ford, 'I dunno. Maybe it is.'

The taxi pulled into the car-park and slowed to a halt in front of them. There were a few moments when the awkwardness of not knowing, as near-strangers, which of them was entitled to sit in the front, almost prevented them from getting in at all; then Ford said,

'You've got longer legs than me.' And hopped into the back.

Arthur felt a little shiver of something run from his spine to his toes as Ford mentioned the length of his legs. He cursed the hangover that was making his body twitch and twang like this, and got in.

'Where to?' asked the driver.

'Cottington,' said Arthur, 'And...I don't know. Where do you actually want to go, Ford?'

'Didn't you say at some point last night that your house was close to a pub?'

'Quite close, yes, but...'

'Then I'll go all the way with you and walk from your house.'

That little shiver passed through Arthur again, robbing him of any argument. He shrugged at the taxi driver and settled down to concentrate on not feeling ill during the journey.

* * *

Will Ford and Arthur's taxi ride pass without event? Will Arthur feel better by the time he gets home? Will the Author resist the temptation to inveigle Ford into Arthur's house and get him to administer the finest (unconfirmed) hangover cure known to humanoid-kind? Well, we'll see. Reviews are almost (but not quite) as good as waking up next to Arthur XD


	4. Chapter 4

The taxi dropped Arthur and Ford outside the little gate leading to Arthur's garden path, and thence, ultimately, to Arthur's front door. Arthur stood by his gate, unable to go in until Ford started to walk away.

It became clear fairly swiftly that Ford was _not_ going to walk away.

'This your house?' he asked with an appraising sort of look at it.

'Yes,' said Arthur, because it was.

'Hm,' said Ford, 'So, how far away is this pub?'

'You carry on down this road. It's only what? Five minutes? It's the first building you come to. You can't miss it. I'm sure they'll be delighted to see you,' he added, relieved that the problem was about to go away. He put his hand on his gate to push it open. Ford didn't go. 'Anything else?' asked Arthur, his natural politeness being eroded steadily away by his hangover, his lack of sleep, his general disgruntlement with the wedding and the fact that parts of him were screaming _'Danger, Danger!_' in Ford's direction.

'No,' said Ford, 'But that was fun, wasn't it? Mind if I pop round sometime?'

'Um...' said Arthur, 'No, of course not, please do...' he heard himself say.

'Great!' Ford flashed him a grin that made him come out in goosebumps all over, and headed off down the road at a healthy pace, his satchel swinging wildly from his shoulder.

Arthur stared after him, his hand limp on the gate for the moment. He suddenly found that he didn't want Ford to go. Not that a bit of peace and quiet wasn't just what he needed right now, but it had been sort of friendly having Ford there. For a moment he was tempted to go inside, change out of his sadly crumpled best suit, brush his hair, feed the dog and head off to the pub as well for a belated hair of the dog. Common sense, however, told him that that was a very slippery slope and advised him to follow through with his original plan for today which, while it included the three above mentioned activities, also included routine but fairly urgent things like vacuuming the hall, mowing the lawn and restocking his unpleasantly depleted store cupboards.

Ford's back disappeared round a corner and Arthur let himself into his garden, up the path to his front door. On the doorstep were six bottles of milk. He picked them up in their little basket and carried them inside.

There was a small pile of post on the mat. He picked it up as well and took it with the milk into the kitchen, where he made himself a cup of tea.

The dog was insanely happy to see him. He assumed that Mrs. Penrose had popped by as he had asked her to if his car was not in the drive first thing. She must have let it into the garden to do its business, since it seemed in no hurry when he opened the door. He sat down and drank his tea.

An hour later, showered, changed, refreshed and drugged up on aspirin, he left the house and made his leisurely way to the village shop It was really a supermarket-scale stores-deficiency, but without a car, that was out of the question; he would just have to live a little frugally for a day or two. He was starting to feel much more cheerful. Yes, his car was in the garage; yes, yesterday had been poor; and yes, he was still feeling a little delicate; but he was home, he had had tea, he was no longer worried that his head might fall off or his stomach eject its contents at an embarrassing moment, and he had made a new friend. A slightly peculiar new friend, but a friend nonetheless, and one who did not work in advertising, which Arthur regarded as something of a bonus.

He shuffled round the little shop murmuring the shopper's mantra to himself,

'Eggs, bread, sugar, carrots, tea; eggs, bread, sugar, carrots, tea; eggs, bread...'

He paid for his groceries, left the shop, and had made it to the bend in the road before he stopped, turned around and returned to the shop to get the sugar.

At the bend he hesitated. Continuing back along the road would take him the shortest way home. However, if he cut across the field through the gate on his right, it would take him to a point half-way along the other road out of the village proper, which also led to his house, past the pub. It would be a friendly sort of thing to do if he just checked that Ford had found it all right. Wouldn't it?

His head gave an experimental throb, just to test the efficacy of the aspirin. He decided against his friendly impulse and returned home.

* * *

The vacuuming did not really help. Nor did the lawn mowing. He was troubled by a strange feeling of discontentment, which continued throughout the day.

The discontentment had not abated by the following morning. In fact, it lasted through the week, a week he was forced to take off work in the continued absence of his car, until the following Saturday, when Ford Prefect turned up at the door at the beginning of the evening, explained that he had 'lost' Arthur's house for a while due to a spot of something to drink at the pub that first night and had only just found it again, and suggested they go to the pub together.

* * *

Ford toppled back into the sofa, which sighed dustily and allowed him to sink down almost to the floor.

'You're on the odd bit there,' Arthur explained, steadying himself on the back of it.

'Ah,' said Ford, trying, unsuccessfully to find some leverage to haul himself back out. Arthur put his hands out and Ford took them, pulling himself to the edge and perching there uncomfortably. He let Arthur's hands slip out of his own and Arthur lost the balance he had been clinging to on Ford, took a large step to regain that balance, overcorrected, and ended up sprawled, half behind Ford on the sofa.

Ford looked round at him and laughed,

''S'nice to have you *hic* down here,' he said, his whole body jerking with the force of the unexpected hiccup. He twisted round to help Arthur up and in so doing, lost his purchase on the edge of the seat. He slid back into the void next to Arthur and hiccuped apologetically at him.

'Should've brought some gi-- *hic* girls back with's.'

'You've got hiccups,' Arthur pointed out, helpfully.

'Yes, but if we had girls...' he paused to waggle his finger dramatically at Arthur, 'We could've got 'em to help us *hic* up. As it *hic* is, we're shtuck.' He patted Arthur's leg. Arthur stared at the fireplace as if it might be able to give him some idea of what to do.

'Your behaviour at the pub wasn' ex...exsackerly cond...' he frowned, 'What's that word? Condi something...'

'Condiment?' offered Ford.

'No. No. Like that though...' he trailed off, then shook himself, 'It's not that, anyway, to getting those two nice women to do anything mush other than run 'way.'

Ford hiccuped again, then harrumphed noisily,

'Don' need'em anyway. 'Sprobably time for bed.' He rested his head on Arthur's shoulder, nestled his way into it and scrunched around until he found a suitable position for going to sleep.

Arthur looked at the clock. He wasn't sure, but he thought the hands were pointing to something very like the middle of the night. The sky had a sort of pre-dawn-ish look about it and that made sense. Since returning from the pub, they had decided to make something to eat to soak up the quite reasonable amount of alcohol they had consumed, only to find that the lack of supermarket-visiting transport really had left Arthur's cupboards in a parlous state.

The dilemma had led them to the conclusion that they best thing to do would be to open a bottle of wine to help their thought processes. The first glass had not produced any real results. Neither had the second. By the time they started on the second bottle, however, they were definitely starting to make progress.

Ford had suggested that they take out all the possibly edible items and line them up on the table so that they could see what they were working with. They did so, and half an hour later, Arthur was expounding the virtues of a slice of bread, a couple of sheets of stale lasagne, some Branston pickle and the sticky tape from a packet of oats, for use as an emergency Carbon Dioxide scrubber; an idea that had made him and Ford giggle indecently and confirmed his suspicions that they were pretty drunk now.

In the end, they had eaten pickle-on-toast, which Ford had declared 'Almost as good as a Hagra Burger,' a sentiment with which Arthur had happily concurred, although he had no idea what Ford was talking about.

Then they had decided to see who could make the tallest tower out of the various jars and boxes laid out on the table. It had looked as if Ford was going to win hands-down, until a spark of offended sobriety alerted Arthur to the fact that the astounding disparity between the towers was largely caused by the fact that while Arthur had laid his foundations on the floor, Ford had started his build on the table. A row had ensued over what constituted allowable building materials, and Ford had gone into a sulk over his tower being disallowed, gone to the cupboard and opened another bottle of wine, which he refused to share until Arthur apologised. The end of that bottle had left Ford disoriented and vague, which was how he had ended up pretty much inside the sofa.

* * *

Arthur looked at the head on his shoulder. He considered getting out from under Ford; fuzzy memories told him that his breath in the morning would not be a pleasant thing to wake up to. However, getting up was now somewhat beyond his capabilities and although he was not altogether comfortable with having this man's softly drooling lips pressed to his neck, he was drunk enough to bat such worries aside. He yawned, stretched, and fell asleep, leaving the arm that had just been stretched above his head to descend, and come to rest snugly around Ford's shoulders.

* * *

_Will Arthur cope well with waking up with his arm around Ford? Will Ford cope well with the delicacies of being in Arthur's house? Will the kitchen ever be tidy again? Hungry plotbunnies feast on reviews XD_


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: Apologies, not only are Ford and Arthur being singularly uncooperative when it comes to getting their kit off, but my eighties childhood seems to be invading my fic ;P_

* * *

Arthur stood in his living room, hands on his hips, feet in his slippers, and looked thoughtfully at his sofa. It stared back, rather malevolently he felt. It knew. It so obviously knew that today was _the day_. It might have been the incident with Ford the other week that had sparked it off.

* * *

Arthur had awoken on the Sunday afternoon to a hangover that was much less severe than he knew he deserved, which unfortunately left him very much aware of the position in which the pair of them had ended up after their little spree the night before.

Ford was snuggled into his chest, his arm tight around him, his nose and mouth hot, wet and noisy against Arthur's throat. Arthur had sunk so far into the innards of the sofa that he could not move without Ford's co-operation. To be utterly stuck in what was, all things taken into account, a rather compromising position, was frustrating enough. To be forced to wake the person without whose consciousness there need be no witnesses was, frankly, distressing. It was also paralysingly embarrassing. He managed to push Ford's lips away from his bare skin, which helped a little, but it did mean that Ford's head rolled back comfortably into the curve of Arthur's shoulder. He looked so peaceful there that Arthur could barely bring himself to wake him, but this was not the time for weakness.

'Ford,' he croaked, 'Wake up.'

Ford snored slightly as his neck tipped back loosely. Arthur prodded him with his free hand. Ford snored more loudly.

'Ford.' Arthur hit his arm rather harder than he had intended.

The snoring stopped and Ford opened one eye to look at him.

'Mmph?' he said.

A wave of embarrassment washed over Arthur. That 'Mmph' had been so contented, so...so similar to the little grunts the odd girlfriend had made when he had tried to explain why he had to get up and go to work and could not just lie in bed all day letting her twiddle his chest hair like... So utterly inappropriate. He blushed crimson and cursed himself. This was ridiculous. He had spent precisely two evenings with this man. Two occasions on which he had managed to get blind drunk and fairly pass out in intimate contact with this man. And now he was being assailed by completely un-called for comparisons.

'Get off me, I can't move,' he said. He had hoped it would come out sounding commanding and rational, but was rather afraid it had just sounded whiney. Ford cracked his eyes open again, withdrew his arm with a passable show of awkwardness, and shuffled himself off Arthur, where he seemed to be swallowed by the sofa. The extra motion shot the seat cushion out from under Arthur, and he found himself sitting on a thin layer of fabric with his knees above his head. He rocked forward. The sofa's personal gravity field seemed to grab him and pull him back. The join between seat and back started to eat his shirt tails. He tried to get up again. The shirt snagged on something in the back, overbalancing him and landing him sideways with his head squarely in Ford's lap.

'I do apologise,' he muttered. He thought he heard Ford snigger, but he couldn't be sure, and to be honest just at this moment he had greater concerns. He righted himself and looked at Ford who was peering at him through half-open eyes...

_Seductively..._ wandered through Arthur's brain and was forcefully booted out. This was a normal guy. A guy just like Arthur's other friends – the ones with whom he had, on occasion, fallen asleep after a heavy night, without it raising even the flicker of anything like _that_ in the morning. Quite the opposite in fact. Well, perhaps he wasn't all that normal, not given some of the conversations they had had in the pub, but he was... not completely alien to Arthur's way of life at least.

'Sorry. Lost my balance,' he said. Ford nodded, stretched and yawned. Arthur twiddled his fingers for a moment, stuck back in the depths of the chair once again. Ford stared across at him appraisingly, them rocked forward and managed to heave himself out first time.

'I need,' he said, 'something to eat. What've you got?'

Arthur considered for a moment, trawling up memories from last night,

'I believe, as you will recall,' he said after a while, 'Pickle on toast is the order of the day, unless you want to hike to the shop.' Ford shook his head and held out his hands. Arthur looked at them dubiously. With the stupid thoughts his brain had been providing this morn-- afternoon, they looked like time-bombs. It must the remaining alcohol in his system. He dismissed the whole thing as such and grasped Ford's hands, allowing himself to be pulled up, out of the sofa. He heard his shirt tails rip. Once he was balanced, he let go of Ford's hands, looked nastily at the sofa and together they staggered to the kitchen to make pickle on toast and spent a not particularly pleasant three and a half hours clearing up after their drunken selves. By the time Ford left that night, the kitchen was at least tidy, although there were still some suspicious stains on the lino, and they had made it to the shop and back so that Arthur at least had something in for breakfast the next day. Arthur had vetoed a snack dinner at the pub, considering the risk of ending up in a similar situation for a second night running to be too high. Instead, he had cooked spaghetti and watched Ford hungrily consume two bowls-full before leaving rapidly, avoiding the possibility of having to help with the washing up or any more cleaning activities.

* * *

That was it though. The sofa had to go. If it was going to literally land him in it like that, he was not going to put up with it any more. Besides, it was starting to get embarrassing in its own right. Better, more professionally employed people than Ford Prefect and himself had narrowly avoided digestion by the sofa. So now he stood looking at it for the last time.

He had got his car back. Six phone calls to the garage, fifty pounds of his hard-earned money and a bit of bribery involving tips for the driver and cups of tea had restored to him his pretty unfaithful old motor, delivered to his house by a man who actually had the nerve to hold out his hand for the promised tip. Arthur almost withheld the money on principle, but the man was solidly built and Arthur wanted to go back to work, not spend the next week nursing a broken nose.

He would chop it up. Ford had agreed to come and help. If they cut it into small enough pieces, they would be able to fit most of it in the back of the car for delivery to the tip.

Arthur ambled upstairs and got dressed. When he came back down, he took the cushions out and stacked them in the garden. He returned to the living room with his saw and put it on the arm of the sofa. Ford would be here in a minute, then they could make a start. He looked out of the window and saw no Ford, so he went to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea.

Twenty minutes later, Arthur had finished his tea and Ford had still not appeared. Arthur stood by the sofa and picked up the saw. He waved it experimentally, glanced out of the window and puffed out his cheeks.

'May as well start then, I suppose,' he said to the room. He placed the saw across the arm and started to saw.

Two and a half hours later, Arthur put the saw down again. He was exhausted, his arm was shaking and both he and his living room were covered in a gritty layer of sawdust, cloth dust and particulate foam. He spat out the last bit he had inhaled and coughed. Wiping his sleeve across his face did nothing to help.

He made his way shufflingly to the kitchen, leaving a trail of dust behind him, and made another cup of tea and ate a cake from his freshly restocked cupboards.

Slightly refreshed, he went to the front door and looked out. He tutted when he saw no sign of Ford and returned to the sofa pieces. There was no point in putting off the rest of the mucky job, so he took hold of the first section, manhandling it to the car and wedging it tightly into the far corner of the opened-up rear seats and boot.

By the time the whole frame was in, he was almost ready to drop. He sat on the front lawn in his filthy clothes and gazed wearily down the road... to where Ford Prefect was sauntering towards him, whistling merrily, satchel swinging. Arthur jumped up and was at the gate as Ford approached.

'Where the hell have you been?' he enquired. Ford looked at him, nonplussed,

'You said get here early.'

'Yes. I said get here early. Your idea of early and mine are obviously wildly different.' He shook his head. 'Never mind. There are still a few bits to fit in and you can help me unload at the other end.' He led the way back to the car and peered into the boot. Even to the most optimistic boot-loader, it was clear that nothing else was going to fit in there. A solid wall of foam, wood and brown fabric blocked the view to the windscreen. Ford echoed Arthur's observant stance and said carefully,

'You're not going to get anything else in there Arthur.' Arthur nodded. It was irritating, but true. Piled a short distance from the car were three of the seat cushions; all that remained of Arthur's sofa.

'Get in,' he said. Ford looked at him, slightly confused,

'You're leaving those ones behind?'

'Get in,' repeated Arthur, too exhausted to explain himself. Ford looked uncertain, but slid himself into the passenger seat, ducking under the piece of wood that projected into the front and hunching himself underneath a section that rested on and over the headrest of his seat. Arthur disappeared.

He returned a few seconds later with two of the seat cushions.

'You should leave your bag here,' he said, pointing at it, 'It's just taking up room.'

'No,' said Ford, determination apparent in this single syllable, 'My bag stays with me.' Even Arthur in his single-mindedness could read the finality of Ford's statement and he let it drop,

'Well, put it in the foot-well then.'

Ford slipped the bag off his shoulder and had barely righted himself when Arthur stuffed the first cushion through the inadequate opening and onto Ford's lap. Ford coughed as a great cloud of dust erupted from the cushion and headed straight down his throat and up his nostrils. He was about to complain that the cushion was pinning him into his seat, when he was overcome by a series of large sneezes. As he exploded into the first cushion, Arthur jammed the second cushion on top of it.

'Bless you!' he said absently and hurried off for the third.

There was no room for the third cushion. That fact was patently obvious. However, Arthur was not to be defeated by the laws of physics and by bunching up one edge of the cushion and leaning on it, he somehow managed to wedge it on top of the first two.

'Are you alright under there?' he asked a similarly squashed Ford, who merely looked at him balefully from his little cramped airspace. 'It's not far,' Arthur assured him. Ford might have had something to say about this, had he the breath to speak.

Arthur let himself into the driver's seat, where he hunched under his own portion of protruding sofa. He glanced down, then peered behind the cushions, but could only see the back of Ford's head.

'Have you got your seatbelt on?' he asked. A minute tensing of the muscles in Ford's back was all the answer he received.

The drive to the tip was awkward, but was, as Arthur had promised, mercifully brief. Until they turned in through tall mesh gates and joined the back of a queue that was, as it always is, unusually long for the time of day. Arthur tutted as he tried to sit up high enough in his seat to see where the end of the queue might be, but was foiled by the piece of sofa pinning him down. Ford was groaning and muttering to himself, but as he was facing the window and muffled by cushions, Arthur could not tell if it was anything worth answering. He sat with the car grumbling to itself in neutral for ten minutes before he got bored and turned off the engine.

Immediately, as if it were the signal for which it had been waiting, the queue moved off at a brisk pace. Arthur exhaled noisily and started the engine. They moved forward thirty feet, then came to a halt once more. This time Arthur decided the engine could have a break straightaway. The queue moved forward. Arthur glared at the car in front, daring it to move further than a couple of feet. It did. He started the engine and crept forward as slowly as he could, keeping his temper well under control. He was a veteran of this game: he could play to win. He pulled up, inches from the car in front, which turned out to be stopped partially blocking a gateway to an adjacent service area, out of which a bulldozer was attempting to drive. Arthur watched it and looked for the little signs in the back view of the driver in front which would tell him whether the bulldozer could get out. The car in front flashed its reversing lights at him. Arthur tapped the steering wheel and looked in the rear-view mirror to see what he had behind. He had a sofa. A lot of sofa. He looked in the wing mirror. It showed him the fence, the dusty road, the side of his car, the tail of the car behind and at least six cars behind that. The car in front started to reverse.

'Aah, no!' yelled Arthur and beeped his horn. The car stopped. The driver looked around and waved at him in an apologetic sort of way; then in a 'well, get out of the way then,' sort of way. Arthur shrugged and signalled that he had people behind him. The driver in front shrugged back: he didn't care. Arthur shifted into reverse with some difficulty, a piece of sofa frame had settled during the drive and now protruded about a centimetre too far into the reverse gear area of space between the front seats. The car behind started to move backwards and stopped. There was a lot of shuffling before it became clear that the car just inside the gate had no intention of reversing out onto the main road. If anybody had left more than an inch of space between themselves and the next person, they might have been able to squeeze up enough, but as it was they didn't stand a chance.

The bulldozer driver was shouting at the car in front and the car driver was clearly convinced that the situation was Arthur's fault. He opened his door and got out. Arthur flicked his eyes to the right to check the door lock was depressed. The queue in front of them moved on and the driver, catching the movement out of the corner of his eye, swiftly got back into his car and moved on.

Arthur caught his breath while he waited for the bulldozer to pass through the gap, then followed the crawling line of cars round a corner into the unloading bay.

Another five minutes and they had reversed wonkily into a space before the great heap of discarded matter. The unbreathable stench of generalised rot hit Arthur as he got out of the car and made his way round to the passenger side, carefully avoiding eye contact with his adversary from the car in front.

He pulled out the first cushion. Ford gave a great gasping breath as fresh air filtered in to him. Arthur removed the second cushion, Ford winced as his ribs expanded for the first time in what seemed like hours. Arthur removed the third cushion. Ford grabbed his wrist,

'Next time, Arthur, I'm driving.' Arthur looked at him in confusion,

'But, you can't drive.'

'No. So you'd better not let it happen again.' Ford gave him the benefit of a ferocious stare, then turned it into a grin, 'Still, I've travelled in worse conditions.' He eased himself out of the car and stretched as Arthur threw the three cushions onto the malodorous heap. Together they extracted the rest of the sofa from the boot, slowly getting into a competition as to who could throw their piece furthest up the pile.

They returned to the car in good humour and Arthur found it within himself to laugh with Ford at the general filthiness of their clothes and hands as he drove, dog-tired, back to his house.

* * *

'Three o'clock, I've got to pick up my new sofa,' Arthur stated as they pulled up outside his house. 'So, I've got to get this clean. I'm going to get a cup of tea and a sandwich first though. Do you want something?' Ford nodded, brushing hopelessly at his foam-speckled sweater.

In the kitchen, Ford put his satchel on the table. It, too, was covered in bits of foam and sawdust. He lifted the flap while Arthur bustled about making sandwiches and boiling the kettle.

'Don't do that in here! I'll have bits everywhere,' Arthur said wearily.

'Oh come on Arthur, there's already a load of it on the floor,' Ford replied, shaking more dust to join what was, admittedly, already on the lino. He blew a cloud of dust off the top layer of stuff in the bag and tutted at it.

'It's got right inside.'

Ford started to empty the contents of his satchel onto the table piece by piece. Arthur watched him while he waited for the kettle to boil. Ford emptied his bag in a very particular way. Not haphazardly as Arthur might have expected, given what he already knew of the man, but extremely neatly, pulling some things out in stacks so that the bottom of the stack was obscured by what was on top. He placed these little piles on the table and blew on them. The kettle boiled. Arthur poured a tea and a coffee and brought them over to the table. He reached out to move a pile to make space for the plates of sandwiches, but was stopped by a firm hand on his arm.

'Leave it!' said Ford firmly. Arthur left it. Clearly Ford had some form of paranoia regarding the contents of his satchel.

Ford tipped the bag on its head when its contents had all been removed, and watched a flurry of sofa particles float to the floor. It took him two minutes to repack it, flinging the items back into it in more the way Arthur had expected, but still keeping the neat little stacks the right way up, and in tact. He slung the bag on the floor and sat down opposite Arthur to eat his sandwiches.

* * *

_Will the car, the house, Ford and Arthur ever be free of sofa dust? Will Arthur get his new sofa? Will the memory of that morning keep on pestering Arthur or will he successfully put it from his mind? Will work for reviews ;)_


	6. Chapter 6

Ford and Arthur did not enjoy their sandwiches.

They had been perfectly good sandwiches in theory. At the point of production, all Arthur's experience in the field of sandwich making had been put to good use and what he had produced would have stood up well against the best amateur sandwich makers in the land. Unfortunately, most of the other sandwich makers were not fighting a film of polyurethane granules and Arthur was. The sandwiches were gritty and tasted of the tip.

Ford looked rather relieved when Arthur put half of his remaining sandwich back on his plate, pushed it away and said,

'Are you ready to get on yet?' Ford raised an eyebrow at him, which sunk again as he continued to look at Arthur. He put his own sandwich down and pushed back his chair.

'You can make a start on the living room, if you don't mind,' said Arthur, 'If you could pick up all the bigger bits of foam while I hoover the car, then I can whizz it around in here when I've finished out there. We've got, what? An hour and a half if we're going to drive there as well.'

'Yes. Okay,' said Ford, trying to look thrilled at the prospect of picking up yet more crumbly foam. When he had agreed to this job it had sounded fun; a few hours with his new friend slicing a sofa in two and picking up a new one. This was not quite what he had envisaged. Well, it wasn't his fault. He'd never been called upon to dismantle a sofa before and he hadn't realised it would be quite so grubby. He considered waiting till Arthur had started to vacuum and slipping out round the side of the house and nipping off to the pub, but really, after this morning, he wasn't dressed for the pub and he got the feeling it would take a while for Arthur to forgive him if he did that. Arthur was promising to be very handy to have around, especially if he was going to have a new sofa of the kind that might comfortably be slept upon on a fairly regular basis. He went into the living room and started to round up all the larger pieces of errant foam. It was a thankless task, particularly given the black bag into which Arthur had suggested he place these bits. The foam was relentlessly attracted by static to the outside of the bag and refused to be put inside. Eventually Ford gave up and just herded the foam into one corner, where it could be pounced upon later, preferably by Arthur.

* * *

Arthur, too, was experiencing difficulties. Upon opening his hall cupboard, he had been deluged by toilet rolls. They had been on offer at the supermarket, four pence a roll. Such a bargain that he couldn't resist and had bought a hundred, much to the amusement of the cashiers. To his horror, he had discovered upon first use that there was a reason for their low price tag. They were utterly unusable, being made of something akin to newsprint with extra serration on the edges to slice your bottom cleanly open if you were foolhardy enough to use them in any sensitive areas. They weren't even remotely absorbent, so could not be used as kitchen towel as he had hoped for one brief moment. Now he was left with ninety-nine of the wretched things and was trying to think of alternative uses for them. He had tried fobbing some off on Ford, but Ford had already encountered the first example by the time Arthur had suggested it, and was not to be fooled. Visions of lagging his pipes for the winter presented themselves, but in the meantime they were clogging up his hall cupboard and falling on him.

He extracted the Electrolux from under the heap and kicked what he could of the toilet rolls back into the cupboard, shutting the door on them as an alternative to putting them away properly. He took the vacuum cleaner under his arm. You couldn't pick it up by the handle any more since the handle had broken off in a tussle with the bottom stair. You couldn't drag it along by its hose because the hose was held on with sticky tape and would come off in your hand, so Arthur was reduced to carrying it around like a baby, mollycoddling it around corners so as not to put any extra pressure on it. For all that, it was a good little machine and puffed out a pleasant, homely smell from its filtered, warm exhaust grille on the top. He pulled the cord out from its little hole. This was his favourite bit, the most enthralling technological item Arthur owned: the Electrolux power-cord return button. The magic, spring loaded drum that took the edge off the vacuuming by making finishing it so much fun. He plugged it in, tapped the 'on' switch with his foot and sniffed in a satisfied way as the little orange light glowed and the vacuum cleaner breathed its soft, wheezy inhalation.

* * *

Crawling around in the boot was not easy for Arthur. He was too tall for it to be comfortable and kept banging his head on the roof. On top of that, he was dropping bits from his clothes onto the areas he had cleaned. By the time he had finished he was grouchy. Ford could do the living room. After all, he hadn't arrived in time to do the hard work earlier. he tapped the switch on the Electrolux and it sighed itself happily to sleep. Strictly speaking, Arthur should have picked it up as it was and carried it to the living room for its next use, but he was feeling irritable and wanted soothing. He unplugged it, laid the cord out straight on the ground and stood next to the machine, hovering his foot over the button. He put weight on it. The cord snaked in, slowly at first, then gathering speed, faster and faster, ribbed grey worm across concrete, until the pull threw the plug up, off the ground, the friction was gone and the cord flicked up, catching Arthur a sharp blow about the ankle before coming to rest smugly against the hole in the wheel.

Arthur danced around on the path, yelling in pain until Ford, glad to be distracted from his task, came out to see what the noise was about.

'Blasted thing bit me!' shouted Arthur, uncaring of who might hear. 'That's it. I'm done for today. You can vacuum the blasted living room.' He sat down on the concrete and glared at the Electrolux. Ford stared at him, considered his sofa-appropriating prospects for a moment and slowly bent down to pick up the offending machine. He looked at Arthur again. The man looked so pathetic sitting there looking like he'd just come in out of a blizzard and exuding misery. Ford stood up again and went over and patted him on the shoulder,

'Come on Arthur, it's not that bad. It's not as if the world's about to end, is it? I'll do the living room if you promise that when we've got the new one back here, you'll come to the pub with me.'

Arthur nodded, waved a 'yes' at him, anything to get him to finish off that horrible job. He watched Ford tow the Electrolux away by its hose, watched him vanish into the house, then reappear a moment later to take the detached body of the machine inside. He heard the frustrated rattle of someone unfamiliar with the vagaries of the machine trying to refit the hose; then the muffled curse as the wrong button was pressed and started to rewind the cord; then, finally, the sound of diligent hoovering.

* * *

Half an hour later, Ford emerged from the house to find Arthur exactly where he had left him. He looked him up and down, went back into the house, re-emerged carrying the vacuum cleaner, turned it on and carefully vacuumed Arthur.

Arthur could have cried. It was such a simple gesture, but it meant that, despite all appearances to the contrary, despite the bravado and airy disregard for deadlines and appointments, Ford_ understood_.

The living room was clean, the car was clean, Ford and Arthur were more or less clean. It was twenty-to-three and if they left now, they should arrive just on time. Arthur got into the car and Ford jumped in alongside, having slung the Electrolux back into the house and slammed the door, causing (though neither of them realised it at this point,) another small toilet roll avalanche in the cupboard.

Driving along the road with a pleasant breeze finding its way through the holes in the car's bodywork and ruffling Ford and Arthur's hair, life started to seem better again.

'Thank-you,' said Arthur once they had pulled out successfully into the the stream of traffic on the main road.

'What?' asked Ford, who had not been concentrating.

'Thank-you, for helping,' Arthur elaborated, glancing at Ford, who continued to stare out of the window as long as Arthur was looking at him. When Arthur looked away he turned to face him,

'Oh. Right,' he said. They drove on in silence.

* * *

The house containing the new sofa was in a pleasant little leafy cul-de-sac on the edge of town . Arthur had seen the advert for the sofa in the local paper, had rung and visited to have a look. It was a good sofa, slightly larger than his old one and rather a lot newer. It was upholstered in neat oatmeal fabric and when you sat on it, it kept you elevated at least eighteen inches off the floor. It even had a smart pair of scatter cushions to go with it. Arthur was very happy to pay in advance and arrange to collect it when he actually had somewhere to put it.

They drew up outside and Arthur got out and rang the doorbell. He beckoned to Ford, who got out, bringing his satchel with him.

This sofa was in one piece and consequently much less inclined to fit neatly into the back of a smallish Renault than the old one. The previous owner was a petite woman in her fifties who seemed very much taken with Arthur, but was no use at all when it came to manhandling large items of furniture. She stood at her front door and watched them as they struggled to insert it into the boot. Any imbalance of labour left over from earlier was fully levelled out as Ford sweated and heaved his side of the fabric-covered lump into the car, catching his wrist and knuckles on the edges of the opening and ripping a hole in the cuff of his sweater. Eventually about two-thirds of the sofa was inside and they piled in the cushions through the passenger door. Arthur found his length of large-load-securing-rope in the glove compartment and crouched down to tie it to his tow-bar.

The rear of the car fixed vaguely securely, they waved goodbye to the woman and got back in. The rumble of the road and the rush of air-turbulence around the slowly oscillating hatchback made conversation on the return trip. Ford remained swivelled around in his chair, as requested, keeping an eye on the sofa for the least sign of attempted escape.

* * *

Back at the house, it was as if the sofa had decided it liked the car so much that it did not want to leave. Every inch of it had dug its claws into the rough lining of the boot and was clinging on like grim death. Ford and Arthur tugged and shuffled and walked it back and forth for quarter of an hour before it was out, and by the time they had it on the path, the sun was almost set and the final manoeuvring into the hall and then upturned shuffling into the living room saw the stars coming out. As they went out for the last cushions from the path, now slightly dewy, Ford looked up at the sky and stared through the stars.

'What are you looking for?' asked Arthur after a while,

'Flying saucers,' said Ford breezily, then seemed to catch himself, as if he'd said this without thinking, as if this was what he always said, but he hadn't meant to use it with Arthur, 'Nothing,' he concluded.

They went back inside, shutting the door on the cold night. Arthur pressed the last cushion into place and they stood back to admire their handiwork. Ford put his bag down by the coffee table and nodded.

'Looks good, Arthur. Very comfortable-looking, that sofa.'

'Yes, it is, isn't it,' said Arthur and they exchanged a look that turned to high mischief, turned on the spot and threw themselves as one, backwards onto the sofa.

It was comfortable. _Very comfortable_, thought Arthur drowsily. The effort of the day catching up with him in a blast of tired muscles and confused thoughts.

'Well, here we are, back on your sofa,' said Ford cryptically. Arthur turned his head to him, he was very close, a short breath away. Too close. If Ford were a girl, that close would be permission to kiss him... _Oh no!_ thought Arthur, _not again... so unnecessary, so completely opposite to my intentions. Why?_

'Tell you what,' said Ford, 'I don't think I can actually be bothered to go to the pub. Shall we just stay here?'

Arthur stared at him. It struck him that, had he known Ford for longer, this might be recognised as an extremely rare occurrence – this reluctance to go to the pub.

'Fine,' he said, 'I'll make something in a minute, I'm hungry. You?' He looked at Ford, who nodded slowly, watching Arthur's eyes disappear from view, as his eyelids closed, his head sank sideways onto Ford's shoulder and he started to whiffle gently in his sleep.

Ford looked at him fondly and whispered to himself,

'Tired monkey.' Then reached into his bag and made a start on the brandy.

* * *

_Will Ford finish off the entire bottle of brandy on his own? Will Arthur allow himself to act on those little comparisons his brain keeps making? Will they ever get to the point where they can satisfy the likes of Hannah Mustang's inner fangirl? Hey - next chapter up already so we don't have to wait and see? A rare occurence indeed - must be the festive season XD_


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: The answers to the above questions being 'Yes', 'No' and 'Maybe' (no prizes for what I've been listening to too much lately,) we jump forward in time, because Arthur is fed up with waking up entangled with Ford in the not-quite-exciting-enough way and refused to let me write him there again ;D_  


* * *

'Here, turn left, turn left!' Ford said loudly, grabbing the wheel and turning. The car narrowly avoided the hedge as Arthur batted Ford's hand away and regained control, turning them in through the open gate.

'Why?' he said, slightly irritably as they slowed to a halt on the rutted, packed earth.

'Keep going!' said Ford, as if stopping when you had no idea where you were going was an inexplicable thing to do. 'I want to look at something and this is perfect.'

Arthur sighed and put the car back into first. The track sloped upwards and the car grumbled and strained to climb it, bumping them around on the hard furrows and pretty basic suspension. Its headlights lit the undersides of the leaves and branches that overhung the track, and created shadowy tunnels in the banked sides.

At the top of the hill, the track opened out into a large field and the light levels suddenly increased dramatically as the tree cover disappeared and the starry sky shone directly onto them.

'Stop!' yelled Ford, and got out of the car, slamming the door behind him. Arthur pulled on the hand-brake and wearily got out on his side. He leaned on the roof of the car and looked across at Ford, who was standing a short distance from the car, head cricked right back, gazing up at the sky. He reminded Arthur of one of those moon-gazing hares you could buy at potteries to put in your herbaceous border.

'Are we really up here just to look at the stars?' he asked, shivering, 'It's freezing out here, Ford.'

'Well, come over here and stand close to me then, said Ford, not taking his eyes off the sky.

'Looking for flying saucers again?' asked Arthur, remembering the number of times Ford had given that as an excuse. Ford tore his eyes away from the stars to glance briefly at him.

'Partly.' He didn't explain any further, just stood there, staring up into infinity.

Arthur stood next to him, feeling the warm glow that radiated from him. Really Ford had no right to be so warm when it had to be below zero out here. He pulled his coat more tightly around him and looked up. It was very beautiful, he would give Ford that much. The sky was perfectly clear and the nearest streetlights were miles away. The bright constellations were backed by a shining net of tiny dots of light, so that it was hard to see the familiar patterns.

'I'm very poor at astronomy, I'm afraid,' said Arthur after a while, 'I can only recognise a couple. The Plough, that's easy enough. And Orion of course.' He looked around the sky, 'There he is. Three stars in a row for his belt, isn't it? Then the three smaller stars you only see on a clear night like this, for his sword. Tricky to see which ones are the rest of him on a night like this. I always remember him you know. My father showed me when I was little. He's got one of the only two stars I can identify too, you know.' He stopped, realising that he was probably talking too much when Ford just wanted to look.

Ford looked at him again,

'Which two?' he asked.

'Well, the Pole star of course, you just follow the line of the Plough and there it is, and Orion's shoulder, that's Betelgeuse isn't it? I remember my father told me that because I found the name in a book and liked it and he thought I'd remember if he showed me. He liked stargazing on a clear night.

'Point it out to me,' said Ford, moving closer to Arthur.

Arthur felt an sudden air of extreme loneliness wash over him, that he would almost have sworn emanated from Ford himself. He pointed rather vaguely to a star he thought might be the one and felt Ford shiver next to him.

'Never thought you could see it from here,' said Ford, a strange tightness to his voice, 'Never occurred to me to find out.' He shivered again.

'Come on,' said Arthur, 'It's very pretty, but it really is freezing, Ford. My fingers won't move enough to change gear if I don't get back in soon.'

Ford nodded, still gazing at the stars, as Arthur went back to the car. Arthur looked back at him,

'Ford?' He went back to him and took his arm. Ford jumped. Arthur found himself lightly stroking the arm. Ford met his eyes and the feeling of loneliness swamped Arthur again. He wanted to do something, to put his arms around this little man and shield him from the gaze of the universe, to hug him and tell him that everything would be okay.

He patted Ford's arm awkwardly and smiled encouragingly, without really knowing why.

They got in. The car was not warm, the heater was something of an afterthought and really needed the engine to have been running for a good two hours before it actually produced heat, rather than a cool breeze. However, after the outside temperature, it was positively tropical, and they relaxed into their seats, Arthur perching himself on the edge of the seat closest to Ford, noticing that Ford had moved further to the right than was normal, so that their sleeves brushed together above the hand-brake.

'Actually, you can see the stars pretty well out of the sun-roof,' said Arthur, feeling that this was a good thing to say. It was true, it allowed Ford to continue his star-gazing for a while, and it meant that Arthur could accompany him in comfort, 'Are you any good at astronomy?' he asked.

'Not from here,' said Ford, inexplicably. Arthur left it. 'That one there, you say?' Ford asked after a moment.

'What? Betelgeuse?' asked Arthur. Ford gave a sort of sigh and turned to stare at Arthur,

'Say that again.'

'Are you all right, Ford?'

'Yes. Say it again.'

'What? Betelgeuse?'

In one incredibly swift, flowing motion, Ford was on him, his leg thrown across Arthur's, one hand in his hair, the other on his cheek, and his lips were far warmer than the night, and desperate.

Arthur sat under him, unable to gather himself enough to do anything, to throw him off... or to respond. Then it was over and the weight and the warmth were gone.

A rustle of fabric signalled Ford returning to his own seat.

_He kissed me! _thought Arthur, feeling a slight tingle run around his lips, _He actually kissed me. This strange, amusing man just kissed me and it was..._

It was nice.

He looked across at Ford, unable to find a suitable expression into which to haul his face. Ford looked back out of the corner of his eye. He was smiling slightly, a gentle, mischievous smirk that belied the seriousness of what he had just done.

It was nice.

Arthur started the car. He could not think of anything to say, so he let the engine get used to the idea of running, then steered them back down the tree-tunneled track, out through the gate and onto the road.

Ford stretched beside him and yawned, glancing across to check that Arthur was keeping an eye on him. He grinned to himself when he saw that he was.

They drove back to Arthur's house in silence. Once they were parked, Ford got out of the car. Arthur leaned across to lock the door, then sat back in his seat for a moment. His brain was refusing to let his body get out of the car. There would be Consequences to what had occurred back there. There would have to be. And he, Arthur, would probably have to instigate them...or be instigated upon, a prospect, the idea of which he was not sure he relished. He thought carefully. It had been rather unexpected, but now, looking back, he wasn't sure he hadn't been a complete and total idiot not to realise sooner. Maybe if he'd...

The driver's door opened abruptly and Ford stuck his arm in, grabbed Arthur's arm, tugged and said,

'Come _on_, Arthur. I thought you said you were freezing?'

* * *

_Action at last! Will Ford's momentum be able to carry them through to something more fulfilling, or will he wait for Arthur to do something? Will Arthur even mention it unless pushed? I have half the next chapter, but reviews might swing it XD_


	8. Chapter 8

'I'm going to make a cup of tea,' said Arthur, very, very calmly. He filled the kettle, plugged it back in and flicked the switch. When he turned around, Ford was inches away from him.

'Um...' said Arthur, trying to worm out from between Ford and the kitchen cupboards. Ford put a hand on his shoulder.

'Arthur,' he said, bringing his other hand up to rest on Arthur's other shoulder, 'Don't be ridiculous.'

This stumped Arthur. He had no idea in what way he might be being ridiculous, or whether it would be a good thing or a bad thing from his point of view to _be_ ridiculous. Ford took advantage of his pause for thought and kissed him again, slipping a hand down under the waistband of his trousers.

Arthur yelped and tried to jump back. He couldn't jump back because the work-top was in the way, so he ended up sitting on the work-top with nowhere to go. Ford smiled and moved closer, leaning on his arms, spread on either side of Arthur.

'Arthur, I don't see what you're making all this fuss about.'

'I'm...' said Arthur, but was cut off by Ford kissing him again. So much for taking the initiative. It was really very...pleasant, but it wouldn't do. Ford could not go around doing this to him. It wasn't right. It was... indecent.

'Ford,' he said when Ford gave him the opportunity, hovering with their noses nanometres apart, making his eyes water with the intensity of his stare, 'It's thoroughly indecent of you to do this. I didn't say you could. It's tantamount to...to...'

'Is it?' Ford asked innocently though not without mischief. He laid his cheek against Arthur's. Arthur jumped slightly, but didn't pull away. Ford's cheek was soft, not nascent-bristly like his own. (Odd really, when you considered what a splendid growth of facial hair Ford could display given a couple of days carelessness about his razor.) It was also very, very warm, while his own was still cold from the night air. To top it all, Ford was humming softly, the vibrations passing from his cheek into Arthur's, and on into Arthur's brain, perhaps, Arthur thought, even into his very soul. He stayed there, the pressure of the contact holding Arthur spellbound, unable to move. Nobody had ever done _this_ with him before. It was different. He would give Ford that much. Of course, that didn't excuse what Ford was doing, but...

What Ford was doing was slowly and unobtrusively opening the fastenings on Arthur's trousers. Behind him, the kettle boiled to a climax and switched itself off, leaving them in silence. The sound of skin and fabric moving, rustling, was suddenly very loud. It filled Arthur's ears and alerted him to the fact that Ford was doing something involving skin, and fabric. Ford's hand slipped inside the opening of his underpants, too easily. Far too easily. Arthur sat up and batted him away, shocked by the loss of contact on his cheek. Ford looked at him sharply.

'I...I need to go to the lavatory, I think,' said Arthur, trying to sound like this was the normal call of nature and in no way related to whatever else was going on. He re-buttoned his trousers and slipped off the work-top. It made very little difference. He was still much taller than Ford and Ford was still looking at him in a way that suggested he had unfinished business.

'Excuse me,' said Arthur, hurriedly, and headed for the bathroom.

'I'll make tea, shall I? Then we can have a quick chat,' Ford shouted after him. Arthur nearly froze in his tracks, two things had arrested his attention. Firstly, Ford had offered to make tea, which was not a skill Arthur had been aware he possessed; secondly, he wanted a 'chat'. 'Chats' were something you had with two types of people: your boss and your girlfriend. Ford was demonstrably neither, and the idea of sitting down to talk with him in that sort of way was utterly preposterous. Just sometimes, it was as if Ford didn't understand the society in which he was living. Arthur went to the bathroom, achieved nothing whatsoever, and returned to the kitchen, where Ford wasn't. He went to the living room. Ford was sitting on the sofa, in a spot designed to force Arthur to sit quite close to him if he chose to sit on the sofa at all. Arthur hovered for a moment, wondering what to do. He couldn't sit down next to a man who had just tried to get into his trousers. That would be tantamount to saying it had been alright, which it hadn't. Arthur found he was thinking more liberally than he was accustomed to. If Ford was that sort of chap, which was a strange idea given the way he generally leered at anything female in the vicinity, then fine, good for him. Arthur was not going to pass judgement on him. He liked the man after all, but he was going to make it clear that he couldn't get away with doing _that_ sort of thing.

It turned out, when Arthur picked up a mug from the coffee table and sipped it, that tea making was _not_ a skill that Ford possessed. The tea had barely seen a tea-bag and was over-milked, but it was the thought that counted, and perhaps he was trying to make up for his error of judgement. On the other hand, the silent look he was giving Arthur from the sofa did not _look_ contrite. It looked confident and patient. Arthur looked at the space on the sofa. He took a breath and sat down next to Ford.

'Go on then,' he said, sipping at his milky water.

'Mmm?'

'You wanted a chat.' Ford opened his mouth, shut it again and grinned, then spoke,

'Not really, I thought you might decide to come back if I said that... and I thought maybe you'd explain the problem.'

'The problem?' Arthur squeaked, 'The problem is that you don't just lean in and kiss someone like that when they're not expecting it. I don't mean when they're 'not expecting it', I mean when they're _really_ not expecting it. It's just not done. Particularly when you're a man and he's, I mean, I'm a man...' he trailed off.

'Arthur, would you ask a girl's permission before you kissed her?' Ford said in a way that suggested he expected the answer to be 'No, of course not.'

'Yes!' said Arthur, outraged.

'Seriously?' Ford asked, shocked, 'You'd sit there and say "Do you object to me kissing you now?"'

'Well...' Arthur shifted uncomfortably, 'Not like that, no, but I wouldn't just pounce on her like that. I'd at least give her a chance to say no.'

'What would have been the point? I wanted, needed to do it and I knew you wouldn't mind.'

'Well, you were wrong, weren't you? I did mind.'

Ford threw him a scathing look,

'Arthur, if you'd minded, I'd be sitting in a field right now, looking at the stars and thinking about how cold it is outside at this time of year.' Arthur looked sideways at him. Ford still looked ridiculously calm, as if he knew he'd won.

'Okay, said Arthur, 'Just – don't do it again. I'm not that sort of man.'

'What sort of man?'

'The...The interested in other men sort.' Ford blinked at him a couple of times,

'What?' he said. Arthur started to form the 'I'm' of 'I'm not homosexual, Ford,' when he realised that that wasn't really what Ford's 'what?' had meant. Ford was looking at him as if he had said something completely incomprehensible.

'Ford, are you saying you don't recognise the difference? I mean, you date girls, don't you? I've seen you, you ogle horribly at anything with breasts within a hundred-yard radius.'

Ford shrugged, a shrug that said, _This really doesn't matter and I'm not going to try and explain just now_. Arthur sighed, wishing he understood. He _wanted_ to kiss this man. It was welling up inside him like a silent scream, a flood of need.

'Look, Ford, if we were just to forget this ever happened...?'

'No! I'm not going to sit here wanting to kiss you, with you fizzing away there, wanting to kiss _me_ and not having a clue how to go about it. I refuse to stand idly by, kicking myself that I blew it, when I know I didn't and actually you'd quite enjoy it.'

'I don't think I would. You know, I'm really quite annoyed about it, but I'm trying to be reasonable...'

'But Arthur,' Ford cut in, 'You're not annoyed, are you? I've _seen_ you when you're actually annoyed and it doesn't look like this. Right now, you just look confused.'

'Oh,' said Arthur, completely at a loss as to what to say. Ford shifted closer to him, closing the small gap which had, up till now, separated them. Arthur flinched, Ford raised his legs up onto the sofa, clutching them to him and pulling himself around to face Arthur.

'Look, I could just leave you here and go home, which would be much easier than arguing with you, and come back some other time when you've had a chance to consider, but I don't think that would help very much. I suspect it would be better if I sorted this out now. So I'm going to.'

'Really?' asked Arthur, heavily.

'Yes. I'm going to kiss you again, because I'm ninety-nine percent certain you want me to.'

Ford's eyes flashed blue lassos at Arthur's heart and his stomach flipped over,

'You can't,' he said weakly, 'It's not fair, you know I don't want to.'

But Ford's eyes were strong and unblinking on him. His own eyes started to water furiously in sympathy, turning his view of Ford into a fractured starburst of Christmas tree light, a pair of blue dots and white halos showing where his eyes still stared forcibly at Arthur. The blue dots moved closer.

Arthur put out a hand to stop him, but his starburst vision interfered with his sense of distance and location and his hand missed, sliding across Ford's shoulder instead. He felt warm sweater turn into warmer skin as his fingers found Ford's collar. He took a sharp breath and found that most of the breath tasted of coffee and night air. Transfixed by sparkling blue, Arthur felt the brush of Ford's lips on his own. His fingers gripped tighter at the touch and he found himself clutching Ford's shoulder. Ford nipped at his lower lip, trapping it between his own, then letting it gently slip away from him in a reluctant snap of elasticity.

'I don't,' Arthur choked out, pushing Ford away. Ford got to his knees and put a hand on the side of Arthur's face, tickling him with his own faint bristles.

'Ford, stop it,' said Arthur, 'I'm not interested,' he said, but the feeling was missing from his words.

'I don't believe you,' said Ford, grinning.

The room was silent except for the low ticking of the clock on the mantlepiece and their breathing, quick and heavy.

Arthur heard the rustle of Ford's clothing, the sound from back in the car. It was the sound of Ford shuffling across, hiking his leg over Arthur's, sitting on his lap. Arthur put his hands up and took him by the arms. He was going to push him off, but the engulfing_ feeling_ was building up inside him again, desire for this little man leaning towards him utterly overwhelming. He couldn't breathe properly, hiccuped when he tried. Ford leaned closer, encouraged by the steady pressure on his upper arms. He hovered close, his breath waterfalling over the tip of Arthur's nose and across his lips.

'Arthur, I want you,' he whispered, so quietly it was barely more than the soft clicking of his tongue as it formed the syllables.

'I want gets nothing,' Arthur murmured weakly. He felt his hands slide up Ford's arms and neck, coming to rest in his hair, a soft curl wrapped around each finger. He pulled Ford in and kissed him, firm cool lips to firm warm lips, letting one arm drop to Ford's shoulders and hold him body-close, chest to chest, a mess of scrunched-up forearms and heaving ribs. Ford squirmed, trying to get more comfortable, and Arthur opened his eyes to see what he was doing. And gasped, and jumped up, sending Ford sprawling half way between floor and sofa.

'Hell!' he shouted and strode across to the window which looked out across his garden to the road leading into the village. He stayed there, his hands still grasping the swiped-shut curtains, breathing irregularly, now a faint shadow against the bright square of curtain, rather than the illuminated picture show they had previously been.

'What the hell am I doing?' he asked the curtains.

'Enjoying yourself? asked Ford in reply, recovering his posture and walking across to stand behind Arthur, his mug of coffee in his hand.

'I don't think that's an accurate answer, Ford,' said Arthur softly. He turned around. Ford was sipping his coffee, staring at him over the rim of the mug. He turned his back on Arthur, put the mug on the table, then returned to stand close, pressing himself against him, leaving him in no doubt as to how interested _he_ was.

His hand slipped into the back of Arthur's trousers and with his shorter stature he found the angle to press on down to worry at the little patch of soft skin behind Arthur's scrotum.

Arthur gasped, but Ford was almost up to his elbow in Arthur's trousers and wrapped about him, protecting his back from contact with the cold glass through the curtains, and Arthur could not move.

'Where did you learn to do that?' Arthur asked, feeling stupid as he asked it. If Ford did this sort of thing a lot, he really didn't want to know.

'I have a... an old friend. He's, um, very good.' Ford didn't seem to think it was a question worthy of embarrassment.

'Hang on!' shrieked Arthur, suddenly fully comprehending where this was going and the fact that he wasn't going to be given time to consider what they'd done and how far he was prepared to go.

'Do you mean,' he continued, blushing furiously, stammering through his words, feeling like an awkward teenager again, 'Are you suggesting you, you want, erm, sex, erm, with me? Er, tonight?' He hoped the room was going to turn itself inside out or collapse, or do anything at all to get him out of the crippling embarrassment in which he now found himself wallowing.

'Yes,' said Ford, prodding Arthur's balls to punctuate his reply.

'Ah...' said Arthur.

'You'd better have a drink,' said Ford, withdrawing his hand, letting his fingers trail over tight sphincter as it left.

'No!' said Arthur, 'If I do anything at all, and I do mean if, I will be absolutely sober. You're not getting me like that.' Ford shrugged,

'Well, even if you're not, I'm getting a drink,' he said.

'Please don't,' Arthur said, more wheedlingly than he had intended.

'Why not?'

'Because I like the certainty of knowing that you actually know what you're doing.

'But it's cold in here. Got to do something to warm up.' He looked suggestively at Arthur, who refused to rise to the bait.

'Well for pity's sake, if that's all it is, light the fire.'

'I don't know how.'

'I'll do it.'

Arthur sat down in front of the fire, already laid up ready. He struck a match and lit a bit of newspaper to push into it. He watched and adjusted as it caught and the flames licked up, heating the wood until a steady glow and the crackle of even burning lit the room with flickering warmth and the sound of winter. Ford had sat down beside him while he worked, silently watching.

'Nice fire,' he said as Arthur relinquished his poker and pulled the mesh guard across, muttering something about sparks. He put his arms around Arthur's waist and waited for him to do something about it. Arthur swallowed, a thought struck him,

'Ford, you didn't – that first night I met you – you didn't, um, fancy me then...did you? I mean, you didn't intend to try something like this that night, until you... well, until you got too blind drunk to do anything about it, did you?' he finished perceptively.

'No, not then,' Ford said, 'At least, I don't think so ,' he added under his breath. 'No, you've sort of grown on me,' he said for Arthur to hear.

'Well, that's very gratifying,' said Arthur, slightly sarcastically. Ford didn't seem to notice the sarcasm, Arthur twiddled the fringe of the rug in front of the fireplace, 'Ford, I don't do this on a first date. Ever.' Ford put his hands on Arthur's shoulders from behind and leaned in to speak softly into his ear,

'This isn't a first date though, is it?'

'You know what I mean. It's ridiculous. Until an hour, hour and a half ago, the thought of even, even kissing you hadn't crossed my mind.'

'Nonsense!' exclaimed Ford, drumming his fingers on Arthur's shoulders, 'You've almost kissed me at least six times in the past and I didn't say a word, because I thought you might work it out for yourself, but since you didn't, I thought I'd have a go. Oh come on Arthur,' he added, seeing no reaction, 'It'll be fun. It'll make you feel better and it'll be for the right reasons. You're right, I'm not drunk, I'm doing this because I really want to. Isn't that enough?'

Arthur stood up to get away from Ford's encircling arms,

'Ford, I didn't wake up this morning thinking that I would finish the day by having – sex – with a man. It's just not how I envisaged my evening. I don't think it's something I'll be happy about doing.'

'Okay, okay, if you don't enjoy a moment of it, I promise never to ask you again.'

Arthur shifted onto his other foot as Ford got to his feet and encroached on his personal space,

'Ford, it'll be a bit late then. You're asking an awful lot–'

'Why? Who's looking, Arthur?' He kissed the side of Arthur's neck. Arthur batted him away. 'The neighbours aren't watching you know.'

'Not any more,' said Arthur bitterly, 'Whole bloody village probably spotted that earlier.'

'No-one saw.'

'You don't know. If I'm ostracised by the whole village tomorrow it's your fault.

'Will you stop worrying? This is supposed to be fun,' Ford said, starting to fiddle with Arthur's top button. Arthur stood passively until his shirt was open half way and Ford ran a hand over his chest, nipple to nipple. He shivered, feeling tendrils of desire creeping through him again,

'I'm sorry Ford, I can't. I can't do this. If you want to sleep over, you can. There's a blanket in the box over there, just make sure the fire's low before you go to sleep. Goodnight.'

Taking a step backwards, out of Ford's reach, Arthur left the room and stomped miserably upstairs.

* * *

_Will Ford go after Arthur? Will Arthur relent? Will we see mild slashiness segue into lovely and wholesome bedroom antics? Well here's fair warning: I'm putting this up to an 'M' next chapter, yay! XD_


	9. Chapter 9

_Thank-you for so many lovely reviewses XD _

_Here is your Christmas present from me. I hope it is satisfactory ;D _

* * *

Ten minutes later, Arthur crept miserably back down the stairs.

Ford was sitting on the sofa staring into the fire, his hands clasped loosely in his lap. He did not seem to notice when Arthur entered.

Arthur approached quietly and listened to him. He was muttering something over and over again, Arthur couldn't quite make it out. He would have sworn it sounded like, 'Belgium, Belgium, Belgium...'

He sat down next to Ford, who jumped, giving a slight yelp of surprise. He looked at Arthur, trying to ascertain his mood. Arthur looked at his own knees,

'Sorry,' he said.

'What for?' mumbled Ford.

'Going off like that. Mean,' said Arthur, 'And...not helpful. To you. Or to me.'

'What?' asked Ford, looking more closely at Arthur, but still very confused.

'I couldn't stay up there. I was miserable. You...I couldn't...I can't...but then up there, I thought...I did want to, maybe, but I can't because... because I don't and I'm not sure how to explain the...'

Ford scratched his forehead, his body still in a rather dejected posture, and gazed at Arthur, trying to work out what he wasn't saying.

'Are you saying you want to, but you don't know how to do it? Or you don't want to, but you don't like disappointing me? Or you...Oh!' His face lit up and he sat up straight and looked at Arthur head-on, his confidence returned, 'You're saying you want to, but you don't think you can because there's something about actually doing that that bothers you. Am I right?'

Arthur opened his mouth, shut it again and looked around the room, trying to find something to stare at other than Ford. His fingers drummed nervously on his knees. It took a moment or two for Ford to realise that he wasn't going to get an answer.

'Arthur, look at me. It's obvious, isn't it? You'd never have come back down if you honestly weren't interested, would you? You'd already escaped. So tell me what the problem is and I'll fix it. Promise.' Arthur rubbed his face. He wanted to tell Ford. He wanted to explain how the whole idea of getting romantically entangled with Ford fundamentally didn't fit in with the way he viewed himself, and how he couldn't visualise himself naked and romping around with Ford (actually, he_ could_, that was part of the problem); but he couldn't think of a way to say it without it sounding plain silly.

Ford chewed at his lip and sat back on the sofa, running his fingers through his hair.

'Okay, if you're not going to help I'm going to have to guess. You're hard work Arthur. I hope you realise I've never been to this much trouble to get to do the wild thing with anybody else.'

'Hmph,' said Arthur, still trying to work out if he could say anything at this point that would actually stand a chance of carrying the day.

'Right. I'm going to do this properly. I'll figure it out. Okay, positives: you like me. I know you do, you've only just stopped yourself from kissing me more than once. You also enjoy kissing me – don't argue,' he added, seeing Arthur open his mouth to deny it, 'You do. You can't get away with that with me, I've kissed my way half way round the...uh, the South of England, and I know when someone's enjoying it.'

'Ford, telling me that I'm not your first, not even your second, tenth or hundredth is unlikely to encourage me to go along with your plans.'

Ford waved a hand to dismiss Arthur's words,

'I didn't _sleep _with them all Arthur. What's a kiss? For some people it's just a way of finding out where you come from.'

'Eh?' asked Arthur, perplexed.

'Never mind,' said Ford, rubbing his chin in thought, 'So why won't you do it? You're worried it's just a one night thing? No. You know it's not. I said I liked you. Um, you want to wait? No, you're dying to kiss me again, so it can't be tha... You're just too caught up in what the village might think. That's it, isn't it.'

'Ford, the village is not going to find out.'

'No, but it's the same thing isn't it? The village, the world, you. You don't think you'd forgive yourself if you let yourself actually have a bit of fun that wasn't strictly in line with how you usually live. Isn't that it? It's like you've got the whole country breathing down your neck disapprovingly, even though no-one need ever know...' He stopped and looked piercingly at Arthur, and knew he was right. Arthur looked up at him, watery guilt in his eyes.

'Right. Well that's the problem discovered. Now we've just got to lose it somehow. Why you disapprove anyway is anybody's guess, but you do. It's obvious now. Any ideas how we can get round this?'

Arthur shook his head.

'What about if I tell you you're being stupid and I just carry on where I left off and you see whether you can't enjoy it?'

Arthur shook his head more ominously.

'Okay, how about this. You tell me what you would be comfortable doing. No, listen,' he said as Arthur started to protest, 'You would be comfortable kissing me. You've already done it, off your own back, you enjoyed it and it's too late to take that back. If you're going to feel bad about that, you've already got an uncomfortable couple of days coming up. You'd be comfortable letting me undo your shirt buttons, because you did let me, even if you did dump me on the floor afterwards. How about you tell me two more things you'd be happy doing, and we do them. I'm happy to take it from there. And...' he paused for effect, 'I won't complain, no matter how many times you dump me on the floor.'

He looked at Arthur, who was clearly fighting a vigourous internal battle. Crucially, however, as yet he was denying nothing.

'I...' he said eventually, Ford leaned forward to listen, 'I don't think there is anything else.'

'Try harder,' said Ford unhelpfully.

Arthur thought. Nothing he could think of was acceptable. Ford was right though, everything he could think of was possible, some of it was even desirable, it just wasn't anything he wanted to have to explain to himself afterwards. On the other hand... why should he have to explain what he did in his own house? Especially to himself. His narrow streak of daredevil elbowed its way to the front of his brain and prodded him nastily, annoyed at being kept chained up so deep in the depths of his brain for so long. If Ford was right, if he enjoyed it, wouldn't that cancel out any feelings of wrongness? If he didn't enjoy it, wouldn't it be good to be able to say he'd given it a shot and that was that, rather than continuing in this half-way house where at any moment Ford could pounce on him?

Arthur took a deep breath. He put a hand on Ford's shoulder, leaned forward till his nose brushed against Ford's hot cheek, and pressed his lips to Ford's. Ford hesitated for a second, then his hands came up to hold Arthur to him, rested on his cheeks, outlining his ears with his thumb and forefinger.

'Really?' Ford asked into Arthur's lips.

'Mmm,' grunted Arthur, scared to try anything more articulate. His brain had gone into meltdown. The idea of actually being able to do this, to let himself go to this extent and really trust Ford, was incomprehensible to him. Why he was allowing it, he still wasn't quite sure. Maybe it was because Ford was right, he _had_ nearly kissed him in the past and if that was going to keep happening, one of these days he was going to give in. It might as well be now, when Ford was making it so easy.

In fact, easy didn't cover it. Ford was leading him along like a small child who wanted to show him a secret cave he'd found. He was excited, his eyes glittering happily at Arthur whenever they opened. He had already made a start on Arthur's buttons once more, and Arthur found that his lead was ludicrously easy to follow. He wanted this. It was so clear now.

Arthur's fingers shook as he tried to undo Ford's shirt buttons. He couldn't look, because the things Ford was doing with his mouth gave him no desire to break the kiss. Ford pushed Arthur's shirt off his shoulders and climbed into his lap to give himself a better shot at the sides of Arthur's ribs. Arthur managed to get the top two buttons of Ford's shirt undone, and whimpered as Ford jerked away to pull it over his head, without bothering to take off the overlying v-neck first.

Ford threw his sweater and shirt in a bundle across the room. Arthur let his hands explore the newly exposed territory. Two ridges of firm muscle bounded Ford's spine and his shoulder-blades were prominent as he held up his arms to grab at whatever part of Arthur he could reach. He kissed his way down Arthur's neck, then back up and across his face, landing the desperate kisses wherever he could. Arthur too was being particularly opportunistic, catching Ford a kiss on the jaw, in the curve of his eye-socket, on the corner of his mouth, wherever the frantic movements of heads and hands brought close enough to target.

Due to a combination of Ford trying to remove his trousers while still sitting in Arthur's lap, and Arthur attempting to hold onto Ford while wrestling his own arms out of his shirt sleeves, they slid off the sofa, rolled to the side and found themselves lying on the rug in front of the fire, half naked, with Arthur staring down at Ford. Ford grinned broadly and tried to drag Arthur down for another kiss, but Arthur held his ground for a moment,

'Ford,' he said shakily, trying to be breezy and failing terribly, 'S–sex on a rug in font of a fire? Do you have any idea how cheesy this is?' He smiled apologetically and Ford pulled more insistently, bringing his head down far enough to whisper in his ear,

'Not cheesy Arthur, warmer than the rest of the house and nice and spacious.' He drew back, bit Arthur's nose lightly and wrinkled his nose in delight at the surprised dog-with-thistles look on Arthur's face. He reached down during this moment of stillness and swiftly unfastened Arthur's trousers for the second time that evening.

* * *

It wasn't lack of interest causing the problem. If he didn't think about it too hard, it started to get the idea quite nicely. It was just that whenever he _did_ think about it, complete and utter terror whipped the life out of it more surely than an ice-pack applied by his mother. Ford figured it out fairly quickly, feeling rather proud of himself for the amount of good, practical mental reasoning he had put in today. He folded his arms on Arthur's chest, ignoring the offending organ for the moment.

'Arthur, you need to relax. You've been hard enough work this evening already, without me having to fight the nervous droop as well. What do you think I'm going to do to you?'

'I don't know. That's the problem,' said Arthur, feeling that sudden impotence might not be such a bad thing after all. Ford, however, had other ideas,

'I'm not going to do anything without checking first, okay? I've made that mistake once already, I'm not going to do it again.' He shuffled up and kissed him, smiling to himself as Arthur responded, tongue probing his mouth with a decent degree of expertise, faint stirrings against Ford's leg. Ford reached down and took hold of Arthur's all-but-soft penis. Arthur froze and Ford sat up, still holding it gently and still smirking at Arthur,

'Disgraceful. You have no idea what this does to my self esteem.'

'_Your_ self esteem?' quavered Arthur.

'Yes, mine. Well, I mean, this isn't about whether or not you can get it up, is it? I know you can. I can feel the bloody thing whenever you stop thinking about it for a few minutes. This is about me not being arousing enough to make you forget your nerves and your paranoia and your...God Arthur, don't look at me like that, you'll finish me before we do anything.'

Arthur looked at him in surprise. Ford had looked away, panting, looking rather shocked at himself, as if he _really_ hadn't meant to say that out loud. He looked back at Arthur and there was a warning on his face not to mention it. Arthur took the warning. and watched, distracted as Ford ran a hand from his chest to his groin, smoothing the soft skin just next to the abundance of wiry hair surrounding his...slightly, just slightly, erect penis. A glance at Arthur's face and Ford moved to lie on the floor, one elbow on the rug, the other arm, resting softly across Arthur's hips. A new look of determination fixed itself on his face and he lowered his head to suede-soft skin and started to lick.

A shrill ringing broke the moment, freezing Ford where he was, and allowing Arthur to breathe again. Upstairs the phone continued to ring, oblivious to the problem it had caused downstairs. Arthur brought a shaky hand up to rub his chin, trying to ignore the fact that Ford's breath was still playing merry havoc with his genitalia.

'Damn,' he whispered in a cracked voice. Ford raised his eyes to look at him,

'For zar...pity's sake, leave it Arthur. They can call back in the morning.'

'But I promised I'd be in. If it's who I think it is. It's to do with work, someone I've got to speak to. I said if they rang me after nine-thirty tonight, I'd be in. Ford, it's really important...'

'Go and answer it then,' said Ford, not sounding at all annoyed, just gently permissive. Arthur stared at him in wonder,

'I can't do that!' he shrieked, motioning to indicate their current position.

'I'll keep, Arthur, I've waited this long, haven't I? Go and answer it.'

'Why?'

'Because you'll worry about it if you don't, and I can't deal with that as well. I promise to get you back in the mood when you've finished.'

Under Ford's encouraging stare, Arthur stood up, stumbling as his trousers caught around his knees. He hurriedly pulled them up and half ran, half staggered up the stairs, clutching them closed at his waist.

Contrary to expectations, Arthur managed to reach the phone before it stopped ringing. Downstairs, Ford listened to the muffled sound of Arthur talking to whatever sort of person it was who would ring a local-radio employee urgently about work at just after nine-thirty at night.

* * *

Arthur came back downstairs looking a lot calmer than he had as he had ascended. He stopped at the door to the living room, halted in his tracks by Ford standing a few feet in front of him, a slightly manic look on his face, achingly hard and keeping himself that way with smooth, elegant strokes of his hand. He strode towards Arthur and unbuttoned his trousers for the third time that night.

'When I said I could wait...' he said, running a hand up Arthur's bare chest. He pulled Arthur's head down to his, licking Arthur's startled lips and sucking at his front teeth, laughing at his continuing wide-eyed uncertainty.

He stepped back, trusting Arthur not to run, grinning encouragingly as Arthur's trousers descended to his ankles, exposing his slightly more enthusiastic, unembarrassed erection.

Ford stood in front of the fire, outlined in glowing orange flames.

'Want me, Arthur? he asked softly.

'Yes,' croaked Arthur. He waddled forward, stopped, tutted and bent to remove his trousers from around his legs. In his haste he overbalanced and Ford leapt forward to catch him, grabbing him round the waist and toppling towards the sofa with him in his arms.

'I am going to be so stiff in the morning.' said Arthur as his back hit the floor and the edge of the sofa and Ford landed on top of him.

'If you were a little stiffer now, it wouldn't do any harm,' said Ford, eyes twinkling,

'Look, this was your idea.' said Arthur, recovering his composure a little, 'I didn't say I'd...' Ford shook his head and kissed him, which effectively shut him up.

'Joke, Arthur,' he said, pulling his trousers off and sending them to join his own clothes in the corner of the room. He prodded Arthur up to sit with his back to the sofa, then slid down, holding Arthur's hands so that he couldn't interfere, and got back to work where the work was needed.

It was awkward, trying to satisfactorily manipulate Arthur's genitalia into a state of high excitement while lying on the floor with both hands occupied with stopping Arthur from getting in the way or pushing him off. Ford prided himself on having an extremely agile and inventive tongue, but it didn't make up for the fact that his stomach muscles were working flat out to hold him up enough to stop him choking on Arthur which, although pleasant in its own way, was not the way Ford had planned on breathing his last. He brought Arthur's hands together and clasped them both in his left hand with a grip that defeated Arthur's best efforts to release himself.

His right hand now unencumbered, Ford was able to raise himself up enough to attack the job properly. Fingers that suddenly seemed to have been designed with the sole purpose of fondling testicles in mind assailed Arthur and he arched into the touch, small sounds of uncertain pleasure escaping from him as the motion brought him further into Ford's mouth and towards the agile tongue.

There was no doubt as to the efficacy of Ford's actions. Arthur's penis stood happily off, eyeing the ceiling as Ford kissed his way down the shaft, licking and nipping until Arthur couldn't stand it any more. Ford's right hand sloping off to rub its way slowly to a target between his buttocks was the last straw.

'No! Stop! Stop! Ford! Stop!' screamed Arthur, writhing and trying to extract his fingers from Ford's grip. Ford stopped and looked up at Arthur through a mist of curly hair. Arthur gazed back at him and shook his head apologetically,

'Uh, I didn't mean it,' he gasped, 'My mouth is taking orders from the wrong bit of my brain...I give you full permission to completely disregard anything I say from here on in.' Ford grinned,

'Okay. Fine,' he said, and disappeared into the nest of hair again, smacking his lips around Arthur, ignoring his little shrieks and unfounded complaints with a smile that Arthur could feel.

However, when he felt the pressure building and felt hopeless longing emanating from Arthur, Ford stopped what he was doing, slowly let go of Arthur's hands and crawled up his body, resting his arms on the slope of his chest, careful to avoid touching any sensitive areas with his legs. Arthur's breathing was uneven and he took extra little gasps at every prod of Ford's own disregarded erection.

'You know the girls you've been with, Arthur?' Ford asked, carefully monitoring Arthur's reaction as he asked, ready to turn the conversation if it looked like a bad mistake.

'Ye-es,' said Arthur warily, in between breaths. His freed hands wandered up Ford's back and started to trace patterns on his shoulder-blades and up into his hair. He would quite happily have pulled Ford's head closer and kissed him silly at this point, but Ford seemed to have something to say, so he merely looked at him through lowered eyelids and listened for the next sentence.

'Did you always do it the normal way?' Arthur frowned,

'I beg your pardon?'

'Did you always...go in the front door?'

'Euphemisms Ford? I wouldn't have thought that was your style,' said Arthur, twisting a curl lazily around his finger and wishing that Ford would stop talking and get back to that utter torture he had been perpetrating upon him a few seconds before.

'No, well, I thought it might go down better with you. So, did you?'

'Yes.'

'Always?'

'Always.'

'You never wanted to have a go...the other way?' He watched Arthur's face apprehensively, but Arthur was too drugged up on his own desire to care what Ford wanted to ask him,

'No. Nice men don't do that sort of thing.'

'They do where I come from,' said Ford, relieved by Arthur's acceptance of the question.

'I didn't know Guildford was that liberated,' said Arthur rather more warily. He let his hand rub over Ford's thigh, mussing the hairs into fuzz.

'You have no idea. Anyway, I'm asking because I said I would. I'm not waiting while you think it over though. You've been lying there getting all my attention, and I'm now officially a desperate man. I want you in me Arthur. You don't even have to get up.' Arthur started at the suggestion and a look of slight panic raced across his face, looking for somewhere to hide. He hurriedly said,

'Uh, Ford, I'm not sure about that. I don't think I want to. Not yet.'

'I'm going to completely disregard that, as per instructions,' replied Ford, not even looking at Arthur's face.

'Please Ford, I... Apart from anything else, well, have you got...you know, protection? It's all they ever talk about at the moment, you know, with things as they are and I...well, I wasn't expecting any company, so I'm not exactly laden down with that sort of thing right now.'

Ford looked straight at Arthur,

'Fair enough. If that's your worry, here's my answer: Do you trust me to tell you the absolute truth here?' Arthur considered for a moment, watching the expression on Ford's face which was, for the first time all night, deadly serious. He nodded slowly, but deliberately. 'Good,' continued Ford, 'I promise I am clean. I'm...a little strange...medically speaking, okay? I can't explain why, but I can't get, I can't even carry, anything nasty in that department. Something in my blood or something. Plus I haven't slept with anyone for...well, long enough. I'm clean and it wouldn't bother me if you were carrying every nasty known to mankind. Believe me?' Arthur thought, reviewed his previous answer, and nodded again.

'Was that your only objection?' asked Ford, his face losing its serious cast again as he began to trace lines around Arthur's penis once more.

'No, I...' started Arthur, but Ford cut him off.

'Don't bother Arthur, I'm going to disregard those too. You will enjoy this. I know you will. You've gone this far, I'm ready...phone calls are good for some things. It's safe, and it's a whole load of fun and sensation you don't get any other way. Trust me?' Arthur shook his head, but without conviction. Suddenly he _wanted_ to trust Ford. He noted vaguely that Ford had been planning this, but he didn't much care, particularly as Ford had slipped away to lick trails of slippery saliva up and down his throbbing erection.

In a moment Arthur blinked as Ford's own erection flashed past the end of his nose as he settled astride Arthur, kneeling either side of his legs.

Arthur held his breath as Ford eased slowly down onto him, tight and hot and Ford's face broke in a wash of ecstasy. He leaned forward and kissed him, the combination of Ford's obvious enjoyment and the incredible rolling pressure sending him his own personal jolts of intense pleasure, seemed to have pushed aside any doubts that this was a good idea. Ford shifted on top of him, finding the easiest way to move. Then he started a steady rise and fall up and down around Arthur, deeply buried in him, and Arthur gripped his arms tightly and gave in to the little tide of oohs and aahs desperately vying to be articulated. He oohed his way through Ford's first upstroke and aahed his way through his descent. Ford steadied himself on Arthur's shoulders and kissed him back until he couldn't trust himself not to bite hard any more and pulled back to concentrate on the building sensations in his lower abdomen and the washes of pleasure making his limbs tingle. He leaned slightly until Arthur was hitting him _just so_ and groaned a great gasp of satisfaction as he felt his orgasm build and build. Arthur, in a moment of inspiration, had taken hold of the erection jabbing him irregularly in the stomach and was assisting Ford's progress with a slightly clumsy but well-enough founded selection of strokes and pressures, which matched both their tastes and were certainly proficient enough to give Ford the edge to leave milky trails across Arthur's chest and stomach as he flailed on top of him for a moment, moaning his inarticulate thanks, resting his forearms on Arthur's shoulders and his forehead against Arthur's forehead.

Arthur grimaced at the change in angle and the loss of regular stimulation replaced by spasms of tight, binding pressure in Ford's slowly heaving body. Clutching Ford's back, he tried to move inside him, feverishly attempting to race for the finish himself, but Ford was too heavy.

'Ford...' he gasped, running his hands all over Ford's back. Ford opened his eyes and understood. He shook off the drowsiness threatening to overwhelm him, raised himself off Arthur, twisted around and shuffled himself back to sit behind him, pushing him away from the sofa, his legs splayed around him, starting a deft stroking and teasing to replace the aftermath contractions of his own body. He brought his left hand up to Arthur's mouth and nose, gently restricting a portion of his air-flow.

Arthur's teeth grazed Ford's palm as he surrendered to his skill and allowed his head to loll back on Ford's shoulder. Ford rested his cheek on the fine hair on Arthur's head and felt for just the right placement of his hand. He let a finger slip into Arthur's mouth and was rewarded by a soft, wet sweep of tongue and an unknowing, not-quite-gentle bite. He pressed down on Arthur's teeth, covering more of his open mouth with his palm, feeling Arthur's breath whistle back and forth across the damp skin. Arthur sucked hungrily at his finger, moaning as Ford's other hand continued to work, a smooth sliding up and down, now a slight tickle at the base, just so, now a rough thumb-tip across the head making him jerk in Ford's arms and suck sharp, inadequate air between Ford's fingers. A few minutes of vigourous pumping and a perfectly timed squeeze or two and Arthur came, sighing heavily between Ford's fingers, pressing his head hard, sideways into Ford's neck. As his orgasm subsided, Ford's fingers slipped away and Arthur breathed gulps of wood-smoke tasting air, letting his hands fall onto Ford's legs, shaking with exertion.

Ford sat there, listening to Arthur's breathing as his lungs tried to make up for their lack of efficacy during those crucial seconds: Deep breath, deep breath, swallow-gasp, deep breath, swallow-gasp, deep breath, deep breath, deep breath, swallow, deep nasal inhalation, deep breath, swallow, nearly normal breath, normal breath, normal breath, normal breath...

* * *

_This chapter was written at work, at pantomime rehearsals, at mealtimes and on public transport thanks to the wonders of the Greek alphabet - don't you love writing indecipherable rampant sex right under your boss/director/mother/fellow passenger's nose? ;) All that in order to get it posted before Christmas. I won't have time to update again before Christmas, so a very happy one to everybody concerned, may Santa bring you many fertile plotbunnies ;D_


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